


Not What You Wanted

by heylittleriotact



Category: Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic II: The Sith Lords
Genre: Alcoholism, Drug Use, F/F, F/M, PTSD, Redemption, fill in the blank, i swear everything turns out alright in the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-26 04:42:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 39
Words: 100,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6224326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heylittleriotact/pseuds/heylittleriotact
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How does it feel to have something you've lived without for years suddenly come back? The story of Meetra Surik, the physical shock of the Force returning, what she did during her exile, and of course the ever-present consequences of her actions during the war. A fill in the blanks of sorts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I never finished this. But I'd like to... someday. For now I'm just transferring it over here from FFnet since that account has well... atrophied. 
> 
> I started writing this in November of 2012 following one of the biggest and most tumultuous years of growing I've experienced to date. This fic was my outlet, my escape, and my saving grace for a long time to come. I always regret that I never finished it, but at the same time I'm relieved that life improved enough for me in the long run enough so that I didn't feel like I had to hide in this amazing universe anymore.

She had never anticipated as a child, the sort of life she'd end up living. If she would have known ahead of time what it would entail- the Jedi lifestyle, the Mandalorian Wars, her subsequent time spent in drug-addled exile and hopelessness...  and the fact that she was currently standing outside of a force cage in her underthings being ogled at by possibly the only living person within her immediate vicinity- she may have reconsidered many forks along her road of life.

The reality of life though, is that the past is unchangeable and for that reason, Meetra Surik didn't even bother replying to the prisoner's deliberate comment about her current state of dress. She had other things concerning her at the moment. Things, such as the throbbing migraine she had woken up with, the dead woman (who wasn't dead) in the morgue, and how in the name of all things living she had ended up in this place.

The reality of the matter was not lost on her; this was not simply the dry, sluggish morning after a weekend of spice-bingeing; a feeling she was well-accustomed to. This was different. This situation carried a weighty sense of foreboding about it that Meetra was unable to ignore.

There was only a fleeting moment of hesitation that knocked petulantly around her mind before she decided to let the prisoner she had discovered - Atton, he called himself- out of captivity. For the time being she was willing to trust that his loyalty was sound. If what she was beginning to suspect was true, he needed her help as badly as she needed his, and shooting her in the back would likely seal his fate. 

It was reflexive however to keep in mind to be mindful of the fragility of such loyalty once they found a certain escape. It was the prisoner who told her of the bounty on those like herself, so despite his disinterested explanation of the topic, she remained on guard.

The very real potential to be stabbed in the back aside, they orchestrated their strategy and worked their way past security protocols and malfunctioning mining droids in what was revealed to her to be the Peragus Mining Facility. All the while she was  becoming increasingly aware of an even more terrifying truth.

In her period of years in exile, she had become comfortably aware of the unique sensation of detachment from the phenomenon that her kind controlled. Not emotional and physical detachment like the Jedi Order taught. The detachment she had become accustomed to was a detachment of obligation: When the Force left her and she travelled to the distant planets on the edge of known space, she slowly lost the formerly ever-present inclination to lead and connect with the universe around her.

She did hard jobs and small kindnesses in her travels as a way to pass the time, but never anything extravagant, never anything heroic or particularly inspiring... never did she feel the call to do more.

In the Order, it was give, give, give, from an empty chasm in which the Force theoretically flowed through. That was how bonds formed, that was how people were turned to the cause, recruited, and consequently killed: Murder by cause of charisma.

What troubled Meetra, was that the very same feeling was returning.

It was less of a physical sensation, and more of a neurological reflex: After almost a decade free of the craving and resulting rush that came with connecting with another person through the Force, the distantly familiar feeling of working with that other person to achieve a common goal, wanting to protect and be protected by them, along with the challenge of coordinating strategies on the fly was hardly unnoticeable.

Camaraderie, it was called she supposed, clumsily bonking her plasma torch into the circuits of another mining droid.

She hummed quietly, low in her vocal cords as her companion activated a grenade and tossed it to her. She caught it with ease and lobbed it down the hallway. They were nearly at the Ebon Hawk and the rate of speed of her skills returning both bemused her and chilled her to the core.

There was a familiarity in this spontaneous dance with death -- the footsteps and rhythm were easy to remember, but the pace of the dance made it feel like she was being torn apart from the inside out by an overly aggressive partner who had taken to flinging her around the dancefloor. 

By the time they had slogged their way through a fuel line, reunited with Kreia, and fought their way to the hangar, she felt ill with over-stimulation: Her equilibrium was faltering and her eyes were watering, her head felt ready to burst with pent up pressure, and her ears rang continuously.

She stumbled towards the Ebon Hawk at full speed, following Atton, Kreia and the droid as they neared the loading ramp, but lurched to a halt with a screech of boot soles on duraplaster. The fuel fumes of Peragus poured off the uniform she wore and assaulted her nose; danger was coming, hard and fast. Sound; her own heartbeat and the roar of the ship's engines firing to life filled her ears along with breathing, running feet, the clink of Sith armour on the muzzle of many rifles… it all fell apart in a blur of confusion; she didn’t know what was real or imagined anymore.

The world lurched around her and she bent forward and was sick. She didn't waste time to recover properly or groan in agony despite the insistence of her spasming abdominal muscles that she do so. She hauled herself up off the ground with a conviction that had abandoned her for over a decade and sprinted across the remaining expanse between herself and the ship.

She tumbled up the deck just as the first pair of Sith soldiers ran across her periphery.

She slammed her hand over the ramp controls and somehow managed to blunder into the cockpit, wiping sweat and strings of saliva and bile off her face without a second thought.

"Guns?" She asked, and her pilot answered with a nod. Before she left, she wiped her forehead with her fuel soaked sleeve and panted, "We’ll get out of this."

"Yeah," The pilot said sarcastically, "Tell you what, if this doesn't end with us being turned to dust, I owe you a strong drink."

His words were already fading as she ran down the corridor to the guns.


	2. Chapter 2

She wasted no time finding necessities upon being freed from her cell and given an apartment. The first thing she did upon returning from her jaunt was pitch her old clothes in the incinerator; the grubby miner's uniform was oversized and she tired quickly of the fuel smell that followed her everywhere.

She'd earned the credits for new clothes by doing small, odd jobs for some of the republic soldiers and families in the restoration zones. Nothing glamorous; errand running mostly, but it certainly beat Atton's suggestion that she lurk around a cantina and win a few rounds of high stakes Pazaak. She was familiar with the game, and was actually fairly good at it, but she was not foolish enough to believe she had the skill to turn a few credits into a few hundred. She wasn't about to ask Atton to do it for her either; the less obligated she was to anyone, the better.

She took her time in the refresher, revelling in the hot steamy water and the sounds of the holorecord she had put on. It had occurred to her over the past few days that if she simply distracted herself from the incessant call of the Force, the throbbing headaches were nearly controllable. Today it was Jix Rizer and The Jawas keeping her overstimulated mind at ease while she bathed.

She sang along noncommittally as she massaged the grease and dirt from her hair: Bits of durasteel and space dust came apart in her fingers and twirled down the drain and she smiled wryly as she watched them go. It was a ritual so very like the aftermath of many battles she had fought during the war.

The war.

She shut off the water and stepped out of the refresher, wrapping herself in a clean, gray towel as she smudged out a clear space in the mirror and drew her fingers through her dripping hair. The war was something that she hadn’t thought about it a very long time, and just because the Force appeared to have returned to her, she wasn’t about to start now. Not yet. Ten years later and she still wasn’t ready.

Sagely blue eyes fleeted quickly away from their own reflection as they fell to the clothing bag from Telos' struggling marketplace.

Meetra from years past might have sought out Jedi robes if it meant scouring every corner of the planet to find them. Meetra from years past would have wanted everyone who looked at her to know who and what she was.

Meetra of the present, however, reached into the bag and unfolded each article. Black panelled trousers, a simple sleeveless gray shirt, a woven leather blaster holster and belt, practical front lacing combat boots and a supple, black leather flying jacket.

She had vowed a very long time ago to never wear Jedi robes again.

She pulled the clothes on and didn't bother drying her hair, despite the rivulets of moisture that still trickled down her collarbones where the tips of her hair contacted them. She tore off some tags, straightened some seams and decided she was done. Her fingers found the switch for the lights and the power for Jix Rizer and The Jawas and as soon as silence set in, the headache found its way back.

"For the love of space..." She sighed as she plodded down the corridor towards the medical bay. She carelessly flung her bag of trash aside and began rifling through medical supplies in the footlocker near the examination table. "I'd give my left hand to not have this... fracking headache anymore..." She ground out, tossing aside medpacs and syringes. She wrapped her hand around a bottle and sat back on her heels to inspect the label.

"Night-time cold medicine?" She sighed wearily again. She pushed a few more items aside and groaned when her efforts were entirely fruitless. She considered just chucking the bottle of blue fluid back in the locker and giving up altogether, but a wave of uncontrolled cacophony drowned out her hearing and vision for a moment, and she thought better of it.

Uttering inwardly calming words, Meetra unscrewed the lid and took a hapless swig: She had poured worse things down her throat to deal with her problems.

"Such behaviour is unbecoming for one like yourself."

"At this point, I just need something to take the edge off." Meetra muttered, taking another pull of cold medicine.

"The Force calls to you, Exile, and you choose to bury it in old holorecords and pharmaceutical products." Cold disappointment and something akin to repulsion permeated Kreia's ancient voice.

Muscles in Meetra's neck tensed at her words. Be it from anger or the Force, she couldn't be certain.

"What do you suggest I do then?" She asked quietly, dropping the cold medicine back in the bin. "Meditate? Focus my thoughts? Feel the Force in all its unbridled, permeating splendour and find peace?" She stood and kicked the lid of the footlocker shut. "I had peace. I had peace without the Force. There is no more splendour in it anymore, Kreia. There is no comfort or solace in what used to be." She met unseeing eyes with her own. "All that's left is memories. Bad memories and poor decisions."

"Are you really so ignorant to assume that the Force wills your continuous torment?" Kreia flicked her remaining hand through the air as if swatting away Meetra's foolish miasma. "The pain you feel, the overwhelming sights and sounds are all that you knew before begging to come back to you. It is a gift, and here you are, dressed like a common mercenary and acting like a fool.”

"I don't want those things back." Meetra countered, fully aware of how childish the words sounded. “I never asked for the Force to leave me, I learned to cope.”

"Well they are coming back." Kreia snapped sharply, her voice like a wooden switch. "The Force calls to you again, Exile... would you be so arrogant as to deny it? Would you revive and accept the feeling of the flow of energy around you, or merely curse at the heavens until your breath is gone... like a petulant youngling?”

Meetra said nothing.

"Breathe." Kreia prompted. "Let the waves and tides of thought and sound fill you. Feel it for what it is... be it benign or threatening. Then, discard it and move onto the next." She swept from the doorway quicker than Meetra would think a woman of her age could.

You have been given a gift, Exile. The Force does not work without purpose.

Meetra closed her eyes and leaned against the cold, sterile counter, willing her throbbing head to cease its irritating behaviour. She didn’t want this.

Bottles of morphine and painkillers glittered in the clean light and her eyes lingered on them a little longer than they should have.

Not today.


	3. Chapter 3

She went to the cantina looking for a drink. At least, that's what she told herself. What she was really looking for was some space and a practical way to deal with her mind free of Kreia's intrusions. She somewhat took to heart what the old woman had said as she strolled around Telos, taking in all she saw and heard. She had work to do, but right now, she was a hot mess. It could wait: her head still ached painfully and her eyes felt constantly watery, but she found herself being able to force a sort of calm acceptance through the nausea bubbling in her stomach.   
  
Clarity, weak and unstable came and went with her concentration. At moments she even felt solid from the inside out; a feeling she had not experienced in years. There was no escaping the fact that just as easily as it had left her, the Force had come back, and she was going to have to learn to live with it despite the fact that all it reminded her of was bloodshed and the sound of skulls cracking under her boots.    
  
She glanced around her surroundings outside the cantina, making sure the coast was clear before holding out her hand as nonchalantly as she could. She flicked her wrist slightly and a small smile danced across her lips as the door slid open seemingly of its own accord. A small triumph indeed, but discipline was paying off in some small way at least. She entered the bar, trying not to look too pleased with herself.   
  
The cantina, creatively named Distinct Jemmen's was one of the cleaner joints on Telos; still a den of debauchery, but at least it was tidy, well lit and smelled respectable. Cigarra smoke hung in the air and the holovisions lining the walls cut through the haze, casting pleasing multi coloured hues on employees and patrons as they went about their evening.   
  
A quick glance around the bar was made it easy for her to stretch the atrophied muscles of her mind; the Rodian playing pazaak with the Bith on the end of the bar was counting cards, and somehow still losing. A Republic soldier, to all others merely enjoying a date with a pretty blonde woman was actually picking up a prostitute (nervously) for the first time.   
  
Someone was far too drunk.   
  
Someone in the corner was selling spice and... someone was watching her.   
  
Not watching in a lecherous way, or for an easy pocket to pick. No, she could sense that someone in this bar had recognized her the moment she walked in the door.   
  
Uneasy at this realization, and with the knowledge of the bounty on her head, she crossed the floor, passing the bar and the tables full of patrons and she sat in a booth. One that gave her full view of the door and the rest of the room. Who knew her face?   
  
Her eyes swept the building, but no faces stood out to her and that was a worrying thought. Her head started to pound again and the bar became far too loud and bright as anxiety started edging into her being. Her fingers fumbled under the table to loosen the blaster in her holster. She slid it out subtly, resting it on her lap as the bar screeched around her.   
  
She gritted her teeth and forced herself back to clarity and the light dimmed and the volume lowered, but the headache persisted. She failed to notice the figure standing by her table, looking down at her through a veil of smoke.   
  
"Well hey there, stranger." He said.   
  
The way he stood was familiar. His physique was unforgettable. She knew his blue eyes and pale hair as well as she knew her own name, yet she couldn't think of a single useful word to say now that he was standing right in front of her.   
  
So instead of acknowledging his familiar greeting, she pulled out a cigarra and tapped the filter on the table before lighting it and simply saying, "Whiskey please, Corellian brand."   
  
Of every cantina in the galaxy, Meetra Surik, you had to come to this one. The headache got worse.   
  
"That's all you have to say?" He said, not budging. His face was friendly, his tone was amicable. Oh but she knew better.   
  
"Oh yeah, and some crunch-peas too. Thanks for reminding me." She cleared her throat and ashed her cigarra.   
  
He didn't reply this time. He just smirked and walked away.   
  
Sleep with a bartender once or twice and it haunts you years later. She let out a huff and held her head in her hands when he was far enough away not to see her. That explains the instant recognition when I walked into the place...   
  
Gordo Wils was his name. During the war, the executive class battleships often had fully serviced cantinas on board. Gordo worked at her favourite one... there wasn't much else to do other than plan strategy and drink.   
  
He was a good man; light of heart and excellent at the art of conversation. Stimulating. She spent many of her nights in his cantina after hours, when all the other officers had gone to their barracks. They drank the night away, laughing and doing riddles... having mock lightsaber battles with damp, twisted bar rags. Her lips twisted at the memory of the welts.   
  
He had made her feel good at a time of intense uncertainty and doubt. Her act of rebellion by joining Revan and Alek in the war weighed heavily on her conscience and if anything, she was drawn to the simple frivolity of hitting on the sweet, laid-back bartender with an easy disposition. He was brightness and positivity and in his eyes, Meetra Surik could do no wrong. Hero, although never as memorable as Revan and Alek had made themselves. Meetra Surik was the good bits of life, where the other two were the duty...   
  
A distraction from the true weight of her choices. She clung to it.   
  
Like many others, she would come to learn, he was drawn to her, for some reason that she still failed to understand. In his words, he told her once that she had inspired him to pursue his dreams in some creative endeavour or another... she could no longer remember what exactly it was. He told her he found beauty in her very existence; something she always felt a bit guilty about. He never really knew who Meetra Surik was.   
  
By her own admittance though, she encouraged him, prompted him onto his goals, offered him willingly the sort of advice he craved... about being genuine and charismatic in all that he dare to achieve; that is how success is won, she would say, and then she would go off into the sea of tables, drink in hand, and make another friend or ten.   
  
She remembered him, awestruck by her words, her casual confidence and effortlessly positive outlook. She was born to inspire, so it only seem fitting she inspire him. It was fair to assume he had idolized her to a point, even though he was a few years older than she was and any true inspiration was one sided; Meetra knew the hardship and trial and skeletons in various closets it took to get to where she was... he never wanted to accept it. To him, success was something you could just decide to do one day, send out a few dozen employment records, and have by then end of the week.   
  
Fool.   
  
Sweet and well meaning as Gordo Wils was, he was naive and soon she felt that she had become something of a coveted jewel to this man; a scrap of some tangible proof that dreams really do come true. She never dared to tell him how terrible she felt at night, despite all the dreams that had become reality.   
  
She never lied to him; she meant it when she told him drunkenly one night that she loved him. It just turned out that for her, love meant something different.   
  
It would never work and she knew it from the very start; The war was too demanding, Jedi were technically forbidden to love, and in all honesty, he was feeding off of her in a way that made her uncomfortable... she could feel it in the very Force: She was The General... not a docile pet, meant to be kept and doted upon. She was action. She was wild as the grass on Dantooine and as spirited as the sandstorms in the harsh, Tattooine deserts... she knew it too. It was her identity.   
  
He wanted love songs, and displays of affection and declarations of commitment.   
  
She wanted uncertainty and that tight feeling one gets in their stomach just before jumping into hyperspace.   
  
Freedom.   
  
Or recklessness.   
  
He drained her of that feeling, so, regardless of all other notions, she cut the tie she had made in her own short-sighted blunder. She cut it hard and fast after the war was won: She visited the cantina less and less, sometimes going for a short time and disappearing when he was occupied with other patrons, claiming ignorance or an emergency when he asked where she went later. She stopped answering his calls on the holovid and sending him silly riddles from her datapad late at night. She gave him no goodbye, no explanation. She just faded out of his life; she saw no need to do anything further. She never looked upon the situation with remorse, although she had tried once or twice in earnest.   
  
And now here she was. Caught in her own trap.   
  
I shed people like snakes shed skin.   
  
He returned to her table with her crunch-peas and not one, but two glasses and an entire bottle of whiskey. Not a good sign.   
  
"Hey, Gordo, look..." she began as he set the order down and took a seat across from her in the booth. "I-"   
  
"So what happened?" He interrupted. "I just... I never understood. Was it something I did... or said?"   
  
She urged herself to take a calming breath; find a centre, prepare inwardly for what you owe this man... a damn explanation.   
  
"It was never anything like that." Defend.   
  
"Then what?" He asked when she failed to elaborate any further.   
  
"It was... a difficult time. There were things I needed to do." Parry.   
  
"So you just disappear? Stop coming around? Stop any sort of contact? I had no idea what happened to you." He said, hurt creeping into his voice.   
  
"No one did." Meetra said, sinking into her booth a little bit, hoping for any sort of distraction that might call for an end to this conversation. A bar fight, a fire... anything. "It just seemed pointless." Stab. She admitted it, aware of the cruel honesty she could no longer hold back. "I had things to do... certain transgressions to answer for at the end of the war and everything between us was still so new. Better to sever the tie when it is young and soft, rather than further down the line when it is hard and tough, I think. It would have hurt you more."   
  
Sever. Decapitate. Eviscerate.   
  
That was the sort of honesty she never felt he could handle.   
  
"But why like THAT." He pressed. "I just never understood. If you had gone about it differently... just talked to me, it could have been so much easier."   
  
For you, maybe. She thought blandly, deciding to keep that remark to herself.   
  
"I am sorry." She admitted, draining her whiskey. "I really don't know what else to say."   
  
He threw back his whiskey and poured them another round.   
  
"I just really hope you never do that to anyone else." He said in an unfamiliar tone she was not accustomed to hearing from him; disappointment through and through, where before there was faith and admiration.   
  
She withered a bit, despite herself. She felt angry at these words; the rest of the verbal barrage was well-deserved, but this... this was a lecture she was not prepared for. It took everything she had in her to tuck her blaster in between her legs and throw back another whiskey with a smile on her face.   
  
"I hear its polite to ask around here: Am I interrupting anything?"   
  
"Don't be ridiculous, of course you're not!" She breathed, a charmingly flustered smile on her face, inwardly utterly relieved. "Atton Rand, Gordo Wils."   
  
They acknowledged one another before Gordo stood up, leaving the bottle and his full glass.   
  
"Poured you a drink." He said, offering Atton his seat. "Enjoy." He cast a final patronizing look at Meetra through the smoke before disappearing.   
  
"So, was that what I think it was?" The scoundrel asked, not wasting anytime setting into the free liquor in front of him.   
  
"It was." Meetra replied, still gazing across the smoky bar distractedly as Gordo's figure vanished into the smoke. "I wouldn't get anything from the kitchen. It'll have spit in it." It was more of a distant observation than a real warning.   
  
Atton grinned at her.   
  
"You talk like I haven't been in the exact same spot before, sister." He raised his glass to hers. Reluctantly, she kissed her brim to his. "Ever run out on a bar tab?"   



	4. Chapter 4

Their time at Distinct Jemmen's hadn't been as short-lived as she initially anticipated it to be. Gordo didn't look her way again from the rest of the night, and Atton had relieved the majority of Pazaak playing patrons of their credits in what Meetra took to be his way of showing empathy to her awkward situation. She wasn't dumb enough to overlook the fact that those credits were money that went into Atton's pockets and not the bar's tonight.   
  
It was subtle, but she appreciated the gesture. It was always nice to know someone was on the same side, and the elegance of the slight was not lost on her.   
  
The whiskey vanished soon after, and she had been about to leave some credits on the table; not enough to cover the liquor, but a token of acknowledgement. Atton's voice cut through the smoke.   
  
"You're not actually going to pay for that, are you?"   
  
"It's the right thing to do." She answered.   
  
"Are you ever gonna come back here again?"   
  
She heaved a sigh and allowed calm to fill her again. "You have a point." She smiled slightly and followed the scoundrel into the street, her wallet as full as it was when she arrived.   
  
"Where to now?" He asked, cramming his hands in his pockets and keeping pace beside her.   
  
"I'm not sure," She replied, pulling her hood up against the cool night air. "I don't know anything about this place. I just went into the first cantina I could find."   
  
"In that case, I'll be picking the next one. Your first choice was a disaster." He looked at her, sizing her up. "Or you could go back and get a good night's sleep."   
  
Meetra knew sleep was going to evade her yet again tonight, so she replied without much thought. "So long as we don't wind up imprisoned again."   
  
"Not funny. Twice was enough. I'm not looking to make a round three."   
  
She couldn't help but think that Atton Rand had found himself in a cage more than twice in his life.   
  
"You are kidding, right?" She quipped as they found themselves outside the highest class nightclub on Telos. "This place is far too rich for my blood." She said as they queued up with the other patrons waiting to get in.   
  
"I do owe you that drink, and I thought you might be a bit more appreciative of one without saliva in it." His teeth glinted in the neon light of the street. "Besides, in case you hadn't noticed, I cleaned up tonight." He proudly patted his breast pocket, where his wallet was.   
  
Meetra smiled wryly; it was a gesture not unknown to her, and since the experience between the two of them at Peragus, it seemed not unnatural for this to happen. Whether he was aware of it or not, he wanted her to like him. He wanted her approval.   
  
She had that affect on people.   
  
She had also learned what it did to them.   
  
"We'll see what happens when we get to the front." She smiled, before turning to the Twi'lek that had joined the line behind them. "Can I bum a cigarra from you?"   
  
"Got a credit?" The Twi'lek replied, reaching into his pocket.   
  
"Sure do." She transferred the currency to him and took the cigarra with a bright smile. "Thanks." She said. "You have a great night."   
  
"You could have asked me for one." Atton muttered.   
  
"But I know you." She stated, looking at him with genuine scepticism.   
  
"I wouldn't have tried to squeeze cred out of you in exchange for a death-stick."   
  
He didn't get it. The urges and motivations, the desires... although no longer driven by war and necessity, they were coming back. She hadn't wanted only a cigarra. She had wanted a connection. Not a comrade or a soldier... simply the act of asking for something and giving something back was enough.   
  
The galaxy would be a better off place if more people just knew how to ask for things, she figured.   
  
She felt fairly light-headed after all the whiskey, but for the first time since she had woken up, reeking of kolto on Peragus, she felt like herself. It was like a shade lifting, and it felt pretty good. She felt like a different version of the same person... no longer a general, no longer wild looking and dread-locked. No longer battle-hungry and fiery. She was a star that had gone super-nova. All of that seemed like someone else's life, now...   
  
As she assumed, she and Atton were denied entry to the swanky club.   
  
"Dress code?" Atton repeated incredulously to the Rodian bouncer. "I've got hard earned money to spend! Who cares what I'm wearing!"   
  
Not interested in the overly loud, flashing, packed and hot night-spot to begin with, Meetra simply tugged on the sleeve of Atton's jacket before he could get any more mouthy.   
  
"Let's just go back and get a drink on our way. The apartment is fine. Nice view, clean, and we can drink and play Pazaak and smoke until the suns come up if we want to." She gently yanked him out of the queue.   
  
"Are you forgetting the senile hag that's done nothing but lurk there the whole time we've been here?" He scoffed. "I can't see her enjoying a friendly Nar Shadaa round. Or anything for that matter."   
  
"Isn't the apartment next to ours empty?" She pointed out.   
  
"I think so... as long as we keep it quiet and don't throw a raging party, we could probably get away with it." He said. "You've got some alright ideas, Surik."   
  
After a brief stop for some more Corellian whiskey, they arrived at their block of apartments. Having not waited to crack the whiskey open and opting instead to indulge on the long walk back, the pair were a decent way to three sheets.   
  
They crashed in the main doors, sniggering in the quietest way they could before ending up at the abandoned suite.   
  
"Hang on..." Meetra muttered, fiddling with the locked door's circuitry. "There!" She moved her hands and the door slid open.   
  
The apartment was by no means the picture perfect definition of comfort... or cleanliness, for that matter. It was cold and filled with stained, dusty furniture that had gone out of style years ago. It had no holovision, no kitchen equipment, and nothing to sit on other than a bed and a few chairs grouped around a table that had one leg which was visibly shorter than the others. The windows were dirty. The air was stale.   
  
This place hadn't been occupied in years.   
  
To Meetra, it was perfect. It was exactly what the cantina was not; quiet, simple, hidden away.   
  
Although he initially looked wary of the crusty chairs, she sensed that Atton felt the same way. Without thinking first, she followed that sense to its source in his mind and was met with a roaringly distracting melody of thoughts and sounds.   
  
It hurt, but she did nothing to give her attempted intrusion away other than a miniscule tense in her jaw that left as quickly as it had come.   
  
Lesson learned, love. She thought, taking a pull of whiskey and stepping properly inside. The lights flickered on when they sensed movement, but they certainly didn't improve the look of the place any.   
  
"At least there isn't a dress code." She said, shrugging off her jacket and draping it on the back of a chair. She took a seat and took out her side deck, ignoring the cloud of dust that had billowed up around her from the cushion. "Between the two of us, I'm the only one who hasn't turned a profit tonight. Unless you count the liquor we ran out on." She started setting her choices aside, face down. "Play for credits and swigs?"   
  
There was amusement in Atton's eyes as he sat across from Meetra, producing his own side deck. "The one time I played with you, you were an embarrassment." He reminded her.   
  
"If previous experience has taught me anything, I seem to improve at this game the more I drink, so I might just do alright."   
  
"Alright." He said, "But don't say I never warned you. Rules?"   
  
"Drink every time you lose a hand-"   
  
"Does this rule apply to the hag, as well?"   
  
"That's in poor taste. But it's also terribly witty, so I'll let it slide." Meetra responded. "Anyways, drink on a loss, drink when two identical cards are laid down, and... two drinks if you bust." She smirked. "Bets start at a two credit minimum?"   
  
"You're on."   



	5. Chapter 5

"... and if you can help make the Czerka Corporation leave us alone so we can continue to restore the wounded ecosystem, I may be able to help you."   
  
"Help me?" Meetra repeated, pinching the bridge of her nose, "How do you mean?"   
  
The Ithorian launched into an explanation at great length about Meetra's current state of overload, and how he, being Force adept, had the ability to help. She kept up, but only just. Her head swam and her dry mouth still tasted vague of whiskey.   
  
She had actually almost missed the meeting with Chodo this morning, attributing her salvation to the grimy beams of sunlight that had massacred their way through the back of her eyelids, jolting her awake with an unwelcome sensation of nausea and panic.   
  
"We have to go!" She whispered loudly, her voice rough from far too much smoking. Her ass left the chair she had slept on faster than she thought possible, though her joints protested at the sudden movement when she quickly jammed her arms into the sleeves of her jacket. "Atton." She hissed.   
  
He was slumped against the wall under the window, his legs stretched out and his arms crossed over his chest, hair fluttering slightly in the breeze caused by gaps in the window insulation. He was still out cold.   
  
"Atton." She repeated, gently kicking his foot.   
  
A non-committal grunt; it was progress, at least.   
  
"I'm going to meet the Ithorian now, and—"   
  
"S'ok... mmmmnhjus go withou me..."   
  
"Doesn't look like I have much of a choice."   
  
So she went alone, and Chodo had made her some herbal tea, which was helping greatly with the hangover.   
  
"How will we get Czerka to leave you alone, then?" She asked, sipping on the flowery tasting drink. "Quite frankly, they seem all business."   
  
"What business doesn't have something to hide, Meetra Surik?" Chodo asked her.   
  
"You want me to uncover a scandal." She smirked. "A dirty, filthy sensation that'll drive their image into the ground, and them off the planet."   
  
"I know that it is an under-handed and undignified request, but I sense that you of all people share an understanding and love of things that grow naturally wild." Chodo explained peacefully as he beckoned her to follow her through his garden. On all sides they were surrounded by the flora that had thrived on Telos prior to its destruction: Acatian Cacti, Brilly Fern, and Creeping Blue Ivy were among the many species she recognized that were represented in the indoor garden. The air around them was filled with the scent of lovingly tended soil and the delicate aroma of flowers made occasional appearances. Meetra had to admit that despite the desolation of Telos, this singular room was literally blooming with the Force in a wonderfully innocent way.   
  
Chodo reached out a wrinkled brown hand and plucked a flower from a nearby bush with the utmost of care to its brothers and sisters. "Frangipani." He held it out to her, being gentle not to crush any of the wide white petals. "You are familiar with this one, no? We call it Ploohmaryah on my world."   
  
She smiled in an under-stated way at Chodo. "Yes, I am familiar with this particular plant. It is a funeral flower. Many cultures plant it above the graves of their dead loved ones." She took it delicately from his large fingers with her own small pale ones and held it in front of her face. "It is a symbol of death." She held it out to Chodo for him to take it back. He did.   
  
"Many years ago, when I was younger than I am now, but still old, a Jedi warrior wore a length of these tangled in her hair." He tucked the white flower in her hair above her left ear, primping in so it was not covered by her green head band. "Some say she did this to intimidate her enemies and strike fear into the hearts of those who saw her and knew the flower's meaning. I however have always thought differently: On my planet, the Ploohmaryah is a flower of love and protection from the divine." Watery black round eyes searched Meetra's. "A symbol of healing."   
  
"I think you're confusing me with the wrong person, Chodo." She whispered, warmed by the old Ithorian's kindness and faith in her.   
  
"Well, you keep that flower then. You take it with you. All I ask is that you consider our request, Meetra Surik. You can help to breathe life back into this broken planet."   
  
She nodded her head slightly. "I will take some time to think about this." She said. "Fooling the Czerka Corporation is not going to be an easy task. Any actions taken are going to require some time and planning. I can't even promise we'll make it that far."   
  
Chodo looked at her, hope positively gleaming in his eyes. She could feel it radiating from him through the Force, and she couldn't help but notice how much like a stodgy old Master she had just sounded.   
  
"I'll contact you soon." She promised, easily putting aside one of the most nonsensical dogmas that the Jedi had ever come up with; do not attach yourself to those you protect. She literally attached herself to Chodo with a hug. A hearty embrace that he returned after he took a minute to realize what was happening.   
  
"You are a good woman, Meetra Surik. I can tell you are already beginning to heal."   
  
"Things are better than they were before." She admitted. "Thank you, Chodo." She left the compound and as the doors to the splendid garden closed behind her, the innocence and light she felt in Chodo's garden seemed to be snuffed from her senses like they were never even there. Desperation and uncertainty and loneliness were all she sensed now, as she strolled down the promenade alone. Her muscles started to ache again, and she could feel her headache returning. Chodo's garden was perfectly aligned peace and calm. There was no struggle to survive for the plants that grew there; they were loved relentlessly by the Ithorians, and tended to night and day, thus, the energy that surrounded them was soothing and placid. They had only one thing to do in their lives; grow.   
  
Among the rest of the planet and its inhabitants though, was unrest. It was if the fabric of the Force was being pulled in hundreds of different directions by hundreds of different hands. Good feelings, bad feelings, confused mixes of both, along with sadness, frustration and in some cases, happiness, joy and lust... Plants had it right. Plants had it easy. All they had to do was live- Grow.   
  
"Have you seen Atton today?" She asked Kreia upon entering the apartment and tossing her jacket on the bed. She unlaced her boots and kicked them off before flopping onto the mattress, sinking into the soft surface, spread-eagled.   
  
Kreia didn't move from her place, cross-legged on the floor. "You tell me, Exile."   
  
"Well," Meetra started, tossing herself onto her back so she was looking at the ceiling. "If he's transformed into a big old Ithorian named 'Chodo' I suppose I just left his compound."   
  
"You spoke with the Ithorian? What is it that he wanted?"   
  
"Help." Meetra said simply. "Just like everybody else."   
  
"Sowing seeds and tending grass is not the sort of work for one like yourself."   
  
"Isn't it, though? I don't think the two are very different at the end of the day... growing things and being a Jedi. Seeds need to be sown in order to grow, and they need to be sown in the right environment. The same goes for knowledge and compassion. Tending the grass that the seeds become is also part of the job description. What good does it do to plant the seeds, wave them goodbye and bid them good luck? I would argue that following through with the seeds of whatever knowledge I've sown through my words and actions is most definitely the sort of work for one like myself. I was a part of the war that eventually led to this planet becoming what it is today. I've sown my seeds across the galaxy, and they have been left unattended for too long: They have become a tangled thorn bush." She blinked serenely at the ceiling as she finished her thoughts.   
  
"I do not think you should be so abrupt to assist the Ithorians." Kreia remarked.   
  
"I need my ship back." Meetra argued stoically.   
  
"Before committing yourself to anymore foolish decisions that lead you to wax philosophical to me, I would suggest returning the communication of Jana Lorso of the Czerka Corporation. She is looking for you, Exile."   
  
Meetra's brow furrowed into a glare as she stared up at the ceiling in silence, her hand coming up to gently stroke the soft petals of the Frangipani Chodo had placed above her left ear.   



	6. Chapter 6

In those days, the smell of sweat, fuel and the burning remnants of blaster discharge were commonplace; a fitting perfume for what seemed like her daily dinner dates with death.   
  
The sweaty smell, heady and full of the pheromones that proved humanity was little more than a particularly intelligent race of animals, was tinged with anxiety and uncertainty today: She had felt it through the Force before she even walked through the door of the small military bunker on the moon of Dxun, surrounded by her typical escort of Republic guards.   
  
These were the days where her hair grew wild, snaking in matted tendrils over her shoulders and tickling her back. Roughly cut crystals and dried flowers were knotted into the bramble, and an ever present chain of small bones; each about an inch long, were also woven into the mess. They clicked and rattled against her shoulder, occasionally colliding with neighboring adornments as she crossed the small room, handing off her heavy woolen outer robe as she did so: The sticky, wet heat of Dxun made the garment itch and cling to her skin. The only practical purpose it served was to keep the insects off of her.   
  
Some of the soldiers stationed in the bunker greeted her enthusiastically; she had worked personally with many of these soldiers before and had seen them through battles that they likely would have lost if not for her strategic cunning and skill with deadly objects. Others, however, averted their eyes as she greeted them, offering weak acknowledgements of arrival; she understood these men as well. Not every soldier wanted to be such, and having a Jedi as a commander did not sit well with some of them. Some were frightened by her appearance; her brown hair, dreadlocked and heavy with sweat and bizarre ornamentation, her skin beaded with sweat and shining with the humidity of Dxun that clung to her body, and the pale, penetrating eyes that were constantly focused but never still. She never doubted for a moment that she belonged in such a wild and primal place as Dxun. The Forced teemed around the place unbridled and ferocious. It was almost rambunctious in a way and it lent her strength and vigor.   
  
"We've restrained him over here, general." Her lieutenant, a man named Criggs informed her, falling into step with her, hand flying to his temple in the form of a salute.   
  
"Was there a struggle?" Her simple question fell from her mouth, calm and composed. "Or did he come willingly?"   
  
Criggs snorted disdainfully, the auburn hairs of his moustache fluttered from the discharge of air from his nose. "These Mandalorians, general… I don't even think they know what 'willingly' doing anything means."   
  
"I'm assuming he wasn't alone?"   
  
"No, general. He had a small company."   
  
"And where are they?"   
  
"No captives were taken general, aside from the one. Almost lost him too. He was about to put a blaster bolt through his own skull before Ramos stopped him."   
  
Cowards. Brutes. Rapists. Thieves.   
  
That's all the Mandalorian race was. Everywhere she fought them she saw the stains of their bloodshed. The orphaned children, the brutalized women and the shell-shocked, catatonic men that were unfortunate enough to be left in their wake.   
  
Someone had once said that war was hell, but she never labored under that dogma. War itself wasn't hell. It was a tool; a necessary, blunt object with which to meet an end. Ideals of glory and honor and the condition of life that drives supposedly civilized creatures to commit the atrocities they did… that to her defined hell.   
  
"Drinks tonight, lieutenant? I'm rotating back to my ship" Meetra said. "I need a night of sleep where I'm not being dined upon by the local fauna." She laughed slightly.   
  
"Going to that onboard cantina of yours again?" The lieutenant bristled jokingly.   
  
"I enjoy a drink now and again, my men do too… what better place to bond with them?" She replied with a crooked smile.   
  
"Never mind all the free drinks that bartender of yours pours you when he thinks no one is looking. Last time you went, did you pay a single credit at the end of the night?"   
  
A ghostly smirk danced across her face, "Force knows I'll need a drink after today." She stopped just outside the small room the captive was being held in and her light eyes; so pale they almost blended in with the white parts around them, searched the face of her trusted colleague. "Did she make it?"   
  
Criggs lowered his gaze and said solemnly, "No."   
  
She nodded, "Have Ramos and Paget construct a pyre down by the river, please. Have her body cleaned and dressed, her lightsaber set aside. I'll take care of the rest when I'm done here." She activated the door. "A Telosian red tonight, I think…" She said, mostly to herself as she entered the room and closed the door behind her. The utility room was empty except for a few cylinders full of supplies, a stack of chairs, a small table and the Mandalorian captive, restrained to a metal pipe, a republic soldier standing guard on either side of him.   
  
The Mandalorian was seated on the ground, still wearing all of his armor, save for his mask. He was as sweat slicked as Meetra was, and looked to be in an openly worse mood than she. An angry purple bruise was rising around his eye, causing it to squint shut in an impossibly comical way as he glared at the Jedi that had just walked in the room.   
  
"Where are my men?" He growled, straining against the chains that bound him.   
  
Meetra said nothing, she only sat on the floor across from the prisoner and rested her elbows on her knees, leaning forward to get a good close look at the Mandalorian. She did not fail to observe his eyes focusing on the long string of bleached white bones that fell over her shoulder as she did this, with a slight rattle. Bruised face and grimy skin aside, he was a handsome man, maybe a year or two older than herself, with his jaw line pocked with scars and dark stubble, he had a rugged attractiveness about him.   
  
"Your men are no longer any concern of yours." She said. "As of today, you are a war veteran."   
  
"Mandalorian's have no veterans." He scoffed defiantly. "We fight until our last battle, and our last battle is our death."   
  
"Mandalorians will have veterans now." Meetra argued serenely. "You will see no further service for your people, as answer for your crimes. Unsurprisingly, there is overwhelming support for the notion that rapists do not deserve glory."   
  
Elora Vassek was one of the many Jedi who pledged their allegiance to Revan and Alek's cause and decision to go to war to aid the republic. She was quiet, soft-spoken and strong in the Force. Meetra personally put her in charge of scouting the western forests of Dxun, with a small group of soldiers. As Meetra had heard it, Elora's team had been ambushed by the Mandalorian company whose leader she now held captive. They had greatly outnumbered her, attacking at night, under cover of darkness, cutting down all of her guard before taking her hostage.   
  
They fit her with a Force collar, so her connection with the Force was distorted and useless to her. They stole away with her, back to their own camp, deep in the heart of the jungle and they beat her within an inch of death. They ridiculed her and mocked her for what she was; a Force user. To the Mandalorians, a Jedi stripped of their power through the Force was a joke, a hilarity, and finally a trophy kill.   
  
When Meetra sent out a reconnaissance team to locate her missing scouts, they came upon the ruins of the ambush and noted that the small company of corpses sleeping on the jungle floor was one body short. Immediately search and rescue efforts were approved at Meetra's behest, and her most loyal men tore the jungle apart with the greatest of care until they found her.   
  
By this time, Elora had been captive for over a week. She was unfed, dehydrated, and her wounds crawled with infection; she was in rough shape. She had been mercilessly beaten, stripped of all dignity and grace, having been repeatedly raped by the leader of the company.   
  
The man who was sitting on the floor like a hound in front of her.   
  
Despite her sincerest hopes that the Force would see her through and spare her, Elora had not survived the ordeal.   
  
"Are you going to kill me then, Jedi?" He sneered through broken teeth. "I thought you bunch don't kill your prisoners."   
  
"We don't." She answered, leaning back on her hands, her hair rustling with all the things tangled in it. "I don't." She re-iterated. "My men will be more than happy to, however. They will gladly oblige me. Many of them were friends to the one whose life you stole. But they know not to kill you." She promised. "You may leave after this conversation, but first I must request that you lay down your guns."   
  
"Are you some kind of fool, Jedi? I obviously don't have any guns at the moment." The prisoner barked. "Interrogate me all you like, I won't reveal any information to you!"   
  
"I don't doubt for a second that you'll be back to your ways again the moment I set you loose in the jungle. Your remorselessness is quite frankly revolting." She said, standing and crossing to the table. " I don't need any intelligence, I simply wish to make an example of you: You will not harm another person with your brutish ways. Not human, not Jedi. No one else will ever feel the fear that Elora Vassen and her company felt when you ambushed them, nor the shame that she felt when you stripped her of her strength and dignity and tied her to a tree like a dog. You don't deserve to be a warrior, Mandalorian. Glory and respect is something that is earned, not taken. You should have just killed her outright and kept some shred of honour."   
  
The surgical knife she'd requested was right where she needed it. She picked it up and turned around, testing the sharpness of the blade on the soft pad of her thumb. There was no anger in her voice, no ember of hate in her being. Just a calm, familiar sort of conviction that told her she was doing what was just and right: This man was a barbarian. A vicious, callous beast. Elora had been only one of many that had lost their lives and their dignity all for Mandalorian glory. This one's glory would be gone after today. He would be nearly useless as a warrior in the eyes of his clan. He would likely not even make it through the jungle back to his camp, for the scent of an open wound drew carnivores quickly on this moon.   
  
"Just let me go." He said, paling visibly but allowing no fear into his voice. "And we will never speak of this again."   
  
She asked him in Mando'a: Do you take me for an idiot?   
  
That shut him up.   
  
She nodded silently to her two guards and without a moment of hesitation they plowed the Mandalorian flat onto the ground, restraining his shoulders with their knees and his head with their rifles   
  
There was certainly no lack of a struggle on the Mandalorian's part, but with his arms bound behind his back, and the weight of two large soldiers keeping him down, it was all for nothing.   
  
"Be thankful that your trigger fingers are the only weapons of yours that I am removing today." She said as she felt the first snap of tendons severing under the knife.   
  



	7. Chapter 7

"So what you're telling me, is that the T.S.F. were able to muster up five armed agents to arrest my pilot, an old woman, and myself, but could only manage to get one out here to oversee the transport of a droid that contains intelligence that might save the planet? Intelligence that certain un-friendly parties are interested in?"   
  
"Times are tough. We're all stretched a bit thin right now…" The T.S.F. officer stammered, his face reddening slightly.   
  
Meetra tapped her foot impatiently on the durasteel floor as she waited for the droid to clank down the loading ramp of the small shuttle it had arrived on.   
  
"Do I know you from somewhere?" The agent said suddenly, squinting his eyes slightly. "You look really familiar."   
  
"Can't say the same for you." Meetra replied brusquely. It was bound to happen now that she was in Republic space again; recognition. Years ago her considerably younger face had been all over the Holonews along with Revan and Alek. She'd aged for sure, and she'd abandoned the ridiculous hair days after Malachor V, but she was an icon during the years of the war. General Surik certainly had her fair share of camera time.   
  
"You fought in the Mandalorian wars, didn't you?" He pressed as she beckoned the droid to follow her and started walking away.   
  
"A lot of people fought in the wars." She said. "What if I did?"   
  
"Yeah, but I swear, you look just like that general. The one with the wild hair," He said, following after her. "Yup! It's gotta be you. Hey, didn't you used to cut off people's fingers and tie them in your—"   
  
She stopped abruptly, her shoulders rolled forward in annoyance as she brought a gloved finger up to her lips. "Shhh!" She hushed him aggressively and unclipped her blaster. "We have company."   
  
"Oh, unexpected guests!" The protocol droid chirped happily upon laying its photoreceptors on Jana Lorso and her gang of lackeys.   
  
"We're here for the droid." Lorso drawled, looking positively bored. "Hand it over and we won't make a mess."   
  
Meetra sighed. "I don't like people like you. I'm not giving you anything except a bit of credit for having the common sense to bring more than one man." She shot a dirty look at the T.S.F. agent.   
  
"I really must urge you to re-consider." Lorso purred. "It'd be a shame having to destroy someone who is obviously as resourceful as yourself."   
  
"Bold words, coming from a corporate slag." Meetra shot back. "Speaking of which, Lorso, despite your arrogance, the fact that you've never even held a blaster in your life is evident because I can tell from here that your safety is on." She took the opportunity while Lorso was checking the side of her blaster rifle to open fire. Her single T.S.F. officer sprung into action as well, firing at whatever was closest to him. "Step back!" She ordered as she caught the movement she'd been waiting for from the corner of her eye; Atton had appeared from his hiding place in the landing bay control room and had lobbed a few flash grenades down from the balcony into the center of the Czerka gang.   
  
The fire fight didn't last long: The Czerka members, blinded and caught by surprise were easy for Atton, Meetra and the officer to pick off one by one with a few well placed blaster shots from each. The smoke settled and silence fell in the landing bay again, except now there was half a dozen corpses strewn across the floor.   
  
"My, my, what a mess…" The droid remarked, glancing at each of their faces in turn.   
  
"These aren't Czerka employees." Meetra muttered, kneeling on the floor and turning a corpse on its back. "They aren't dressed nicely enough."   
  
"So they're in the habit of just paying roaming packs of bums now to do their dirty work?" Atton quipped, unabashedly emptying the pockets of one of the dead for anything of value. Meetra didn't object. In fact, she did the same   
  
"No, Lorso wouldn't have put her life in the hands of those who had never killed in their life. She's been all about intimidation from the beginning." She stood up and tucked some hair behind her ear. "Too bad it didn't do her any good."   
  
"The Exchange?   
  
"For Chodo's sake, I hope not." She answered, beckoning over the T.S.F. agent. "I need you to report this to Lieutenant Grenn. I want at least two T.S.F. officers, stationed outside this hangar, and the Ithorian compound at all times. A bunch of limp-wristed business-firaxa aren't much to be concerned about, but the Exchange has a distinct lack of boundaries that bodes very ill for the restoration project."   
  
"With all due respect, I'm not sure that the lieutenant will agree to spare that kind of man power around the clock."   
  
"I just need to buy some time for them, if it really is the Exchange, any hopes of resolving this diplomatically have just gone out the window. Just please tell Grenn what you saw here today. I need to get back to Chodo and give him the heads up so at least he knows. At least if we can confirm that these are members of the Exchange, Czerka's reputation can be blown off this rock." She rubbed her temples distractedly, trying to ease the ever-present ache. Her fingertips came away sweaty and she wiped them on her pants. "Let's go." She half-grunted.   
  
"Are you okay?" Atton finally asked once they had left the hangar and were away from any ears other than the droid.   
  
"How do you mean?" Meetra replied, glancing over her shoulder to make sure the droid was keeping up.   
  
"I dunno," He said off-handedly, jamming his blaster back into its holster. "You just seem… sick or something."   
  
"Hmmm…" she hummed, "Concern noted. You can't possibly be as dumb as Kreia keeps insisting you are." She wiped her damp forehead with the back of her hand. "Just not feeling at the top of my game these days. I'm starting to think I'm not cut out for this sort of thing anymore."   
  
The answer was elusive, and she intended it to be. There was a certain amount of embarrassment that came with being as broken as she was. She was once an arrogant and powerful warrior. Strength and capability were traits she prided herself on, but now that her entire equilibrium was thrown off, a shadow of her former self was, to put it mildly—disgusted.   
  
"To be honest with you, that's one thing I never understood about Jedi. You're always on the go. You haven't stopped since we got stuffed into force cages the minute we set foot on this planet." He lit a cigarra from the pack he stole from a dead man. "I'm no doctor, but that'll make anyone sick after awhile."   
  
"And how you you know anything about Jedi?"   
  
He held the cigarra out to her and lit another when she accepted it with a tired smile. "I still owe you that drink." He said, completely evading the question.   
  
"I don't suit the standards for the dress-code." She replied. "And honestly, I don't really care to."   
  
"Come on. Your only other choice is that bar where that creep with the blonde hair works, and for all we know, that could end in blood too."   
  
"No thank you, Atton." She said softly but firmly and near silence fell between them, the only sound being the foot-falls of the droid trying to keep up behind them.   
  
Initially, her strategy to face any Exchange members who thought they could rough up the peaceful Ithorians, was to rely on Grenn's men to guard the compound and hangar while she started snooping. If that wasn't going to happen due to Grenn's lack of personnel, she had fully intended to stake herself outside the doors of the compound night and day until someone came looking for trouble. She wasn't adverse to putting a few blaster bolts in places that would make most species of life-form talk.   
  
As all of the best-laid plans go, however, this exploded like the mining colony she'd woken up on.   
  
"You've been trying to talk to the Exchange, too?" She said incredulously to Chodo.   
  
"Yes, but they refuse to speak with me."   
  
"Obviously," she said, "because you don't have any of this." She rubbed her fingers together and then ran her fingers through her hair. "I honestly didn't think you'd throw in with them, Chodo."   
  
"You misunderstand, Meetra. I didn't want them to harm anybody… I wanted to show them the benefit of allowing us to do our work in peace. Show them the value of restoring Telos."   
  
Force bless him, Meetra thought. Completely determined to be peaceful, teaching rather than demanding. Atton didn't see the humor, however.   
  
"Might as well offer a starving Krayt Dragon some steamed vegetables while wearing a meat-suit." He said snarkily, glancing at all of the plants.   
  
"Regardless, I think they've made it clear who their siding with here. Jana Lorso is dead, but where one greedy business-person falls, ten more seem to pop up. This won't phase Czerka for long."   
  
"They've never allowed me into their compound to talk to them, but you seem to be more...ehm... persuasive. Maybe you could try?"   
  
"How would I get in?"   
  
"The Rodian outside keeps telling me I need an appointment, but all of the requests I've put in are ignored. You may have to find someone else who'll agree to let you in."   
  
Meetra didn't like where this was going. "And where might I find such a person?"   
  
"There's that big loud nightclub that just opened up... they don't even let my kind in. They would let you and your cranky companion in for sure though."   
  
"Cranky?" Atton echoed. "Listen good, you-"   
  
"Not helping." Meetra interrupted. "Looks like our choice has been made. We don't have time to stand around debating our moods. I intend to find some... clothes. But before I commit myself to that, I'd like to visit our Rodian friend and see if we can avoid this pointless song and dance."   
  
"I just don't know why you're so opposed to going in the first place." Atton breathed.   
  
"Don't make me list the reasons." She responded, carefully plucking another Frangipani flower and tucking it behind her ear as they made their way out.   



	8. Chapter 8

Atton hadn't seen her since they unsuccessfully interrogated the Rodian in an effort to gain entrance the The Exchange headquarters. He hadn't expected the guard to welcome them in and offer them a warm cup of caffa, and he also hadn't expected Meetra to thump the guy in the face with the butt of her pistol either when he refused to be of any help. Generally speaking, from what he knew of her, she was laid back and well articulated, but today for some reason he couldn't begin to fathom she had a remarkably short fuse. She wasn't enough of an idiot to kill the otherwise innocent guard though, and when Atton chased after her and asked why in space she'd just done that, all had to say was, "I'm really not the killing type."   
  
Women. A guy had to wonder why he spent so much time trying to understand the why's and how's.   
  
Now he was standing alone in the line to the nightclub they were only visiting because an Ithorian space-hippy asked her to… never mind his more than generous attempts at trying to get on her good side. It seemed to him that night in the abandoned apartment was nothing more than a way to pass the time for her. But then, it was hard to tell. Jedi were always like that. Always withdrawn, always secretive and sneaky until some opportunity came along that served their best interests. He puffed hard on his cigarra and hoped that she was already inside and hadn't just decided to go off and raid the entire Exchange building by herself. Whatever. If she did, who cares? This is one man who isn't getting invested in this mess. I figure I'll do this, get the job done, and take the next transport to Nar Shaddaa...   
  
"Do I meet your stupid criteria this time?" He sneered at the bouncer once he got to the front of the line. In all reality, all he had done was ditch his well broken in jacket and buttoned his shirt up a bit more than he normally did, a quick shave and a rag swept over his dusty boots topped it all off. Atton Rand was not the sort of man who owned expensive clothes just for "occasions." The bouncer didn't say anything, he just waved Atton in, despite the final condescending smirk he threw his way.   
  
He couldn't help thinking that this was more like it as his eyes adjusted to the flashing lights and strobing lasers to treat him to what appeared to be a wall of scantily clad Twi'Lek dancers all grinding and gyrating and tossing their lekku around with abandon. He ordered a drink and it occurred to him why Meetra wasn't as all over this place as he'd ignorantly assumed she'd be: It was honestly a hedonistic den. People didn't come to places like this to enjoy a drink or two and some good conversation. They came here to drown out real life; responsibilities, jobs, guilt... drown it in screeching music that sounded like droids trying to duplicate the intricacies of human mating, and drinks that were so sugary and tart that they went down fast and got you drunk even faster, drown it in the spice-high, barely consenting young women of all species that wiggled through the crowds, tugging on the hems of their short skirts as if they were adjusting them to protect their modesty, but you really knew otherwise when you met their glazed eyes and they ran their tongues across their lips.   
  
He felt his ears grow a bit hot as he recounted in his head that Meetra liked things like leather and whiskey and breaking into abandoned apartments and scrambling up onto the rooftops of buildings. He had actually made a point one day when she was out of the apartment, of glancing through all the sound data files she kept on her datapad, and the ones that weren't audio readings of books, were for the most part all older musical acts… back when humans still dominated the music industry across the galaxy and still played real instruments instead of pushing buttons that generated the gratuitous sounds of droid-sex. Now that he was actually here, he realized how incredibly un-Meetra this entire place was: Everyone here including himself was trying to fool everyone else into thinking they were attractive, worthy, impressive, successful, sexy, and not the insecure, fear-driven, regret-ridden sacks of life-force they were in reality. Meetra though, maybe she was an idiot for it, but she didn't seem to wear the same masks as everyone else. Un-nerving openness radiated from her, even when it shouldn't. If her countenance had physical shape, forget masks; it'd be walking around buck nude. Truthfully, it made him feel uncomfortable, like she was tugging at his mask without even knowing it.   
  
The incredibly distinct sound of someone spraying a drink out of their mouth somewhere nearby caused him to turn his head in the direction the noise came from.   
  
"That has to be one of the foulest things I've ever tasted. Honestly, I've never put anything that was more sweet and equally sour in my mouth."   
  
He wasn't surprised.   
  
"Would you enjoy something else instead?" Said the potential suitor. Atton couldn't see either of their faces, as they were both seated at the bar with their backs to him, but he could certainly pick Meetra out despite the uh, clothing she was wearing woman's back typically wasn't the first physical attribute Atton noticed on a woman, but with so much of Meetra's showing it was hard to miss. She couldn't see her that well considering the constant people cutting off his line of sight and the flashing lights, but what he could see of her was sparkly and dark and backless, except for a hood that hid just enough of her skin to make it all the more intriguing.   
  
"Whiskey." She said. "I don't understand why people have to go and complicate good liquor."   
  
"Alright." The buyer said, "But only if you give me your comm info." His stance was playful and flirtatious, with his shoulders angled towards Meetra and his chin tilted down.   
  
She laughed, but not cruelly and also not in that sick simpering way that many females seemed to adopt when they decided to keep stringing a man along and giving him hope that he actually had a chance. "And why would I give you that?"   
  
"I'd like to see you again. Take you out."   
  
"I've been through a lot lately, I'm not really actively seeking opportunities to be taken out. Thanks though."   
  
"I've been through a lot too. It sounds like both of us have. You're an absolutely stunning woman and I like talking to you. These other girls here, they're all eights or nines, but you. You're a perfect ten."   
  
Rookie mistake. Atton thought, sipping his drink. From his experience, unless your object of desire was a droid with a female operating system, comparing a woman to a number was a sure deal breaker.   
  
"I like talking to you too, Aron." Atton saw her face when she turned her head to look at the guy buying her drinks; she was smiling. "But I'm not interested in a date."   
  
"It doesn't have to be a date then," the man presumably named Aron pushed, "Just drinks."   
  
She sighed and ran a hand through her hair, keeping the smile. "Call it what you want, I'm not giving you my info."   
  
Had she been a naïve and barely legal Twi'lek with a nice set, he might have taken the opportunity to intervene and come across as the brave and noble hero who saved the poor damsel from the stupid schutta that couldn't take no for answer. Most guys were too stupid to figure out that guys like him, who were keen opportunists were usually the ones who got the girl by the end of the night, not the other way around.   
  
This though. This was entertainment at its finest, so he stayed put.   
  
He said something else to her that he couldn't quite hear over the thumping music, and she slid off of her stool, shaking her head and still smiling and went around to the other side of the bar to chat with the bartender. He watched her from afar, watched her introduce herself to the bartender, shake hands with a few surrounding patrons, order a round for all of them, and proceed to converse with each of them in turn. Laughing. Genuinely smiling. It wasn't until the extremely tall bartender gave her an incredulous up and down look after she said something that things started to get really interesting.   
  
She beckoned him out from behind the bar and waited for him to join her before he held out a hand, his palm flat and vertical: It was almost level with her face. The guy was huge.   
  
She gave the bartender a mischievous glare and planted her feet before throwing a heavy cross right into the palm of his huge hand. The bartender laughed and she did it again. She did it a couple more times before nodding her head and saying something that looked a lot like Atton to be, "Alright, you win."   
  
He chuckled incredulously. What was she trying to prove? That she could move the enormous man with a couple of hits to the hand? The guy was probably two and a half times her weight. She'd just happily made a fool of herself.   
  
But everyone around her was bartender poured her a shot and she took it with a smile before returning to her previous seat at the bar, where unfortunately Space-Romeo was still sitting and watching the whole thing.   
  
"You're bleeding!" He remarked, seizing her hand from her side and inspecting her scraped knuckles.   
  
"So I am." She remarked, tugging it away. "It's no big deal."   
  
"But you're hurt. Here, let me clean it up for you." He wadded up a bunch of napkins and dunked them in his neighbor's glass of water before trying to snatch Meetra's hand back.   
  
"I wouldn't go so far as to use the word 'hurt.'" She said, briskness entering her voice. "I was the one who decided to throw the punches."   
  
"You shouldn't do things like that. A pretty girl like you shouldnt get hurt."   
  
Atton heard her groan in disgust and she slid off her seat again and disappeared into the throbbing crowd of partiers. He chuckled as he drained his drink and abandoned his seat too, stopping briefly at the bar to order a round for both himself and the badgered Jedi.   
  
"That one seems like quite the pistol." He smirked at Aron, who was alone now, save for his soaked wad of napkin. "Don't get me wrong, you gave it a good shot, pal. But that one, trust me, she's out of your league." Aron glanced at Atton and then at the two whiskeys he'd just ordered and then back to Atton. "Have a good night." Atton smirked, grabbing the drinks and gliding away in the direction Meetra had gone.   
  
"I brought you knuckle disinfectant. Give 'em here, Princess." He snuck up behind her and made a grab for her scraped hand.   
  
"You nerf-herder." She grinned, easily sweeping her bloody hand aside and swiping the tumbler with her other hand. "Were you lurking around for that entire embarrassment?"   
  
"Lurking? What's with the accusations? I was waiting for you. Then I found you. And I found you to be hilarious."   
  
Meetra rolled her eyes. "I come here to take care of business and all I end up with is a bashed up fist and a smart-ass who thinks a drink named after children's confectionary is a delicious idea."   
  
"And knuckle disinfectant." Atton reminded her.   
  
"Mmm." She grunted, swallowing the whiskey in one go and smiling at him. "Yes. It definitely helped." She set the empty glass on a nearby table and glanced at the faces on the dance floor. "I don't even know where to begin. I can't see anything in here. I can't hear anything in here, and nobody in this damn place seems to stay put for more than five minutes."   
  
"Gamorreans." Atton replied. "They're basically the standard issue Exchange body-guard. Find a few of them, and your man will be nearby for sure. You know… if you can handle the smell for long."   
  
"Thanks." She said distractedly, still looking around.   
  
"Hey, what took you so long to get here anyways?"   
  
"Tried to skimp on the dress-code." She answered. "Thought I could get away with keeping everything else the same and just switching to a sparkly tank top instead of a plain one." She lit a cigarra. "Didn't work."   
  
"What's wrong with this?" Atton asked. What she wore was certainly a bit more respectable than what the majority of women painted on themselves to get into a place like this, but he supposed for her it was a stretch. The colour he couldn't make out from his previous vantage point turned out to be a rich brown, flecked with sparkly copper and gold thread. The skirt of the backless outfit was short, but Meetra wore dusky gray leggings. If he asked her why, he had the feeling she'd probably justify the choice by mentioning how cold it got at night. Whatever, so she was sexy and practical. She didn't give him an answer, so he goaded her into one by flipping the little hood up over her head.   
  
"Stop it." She chided, pulling the hood down, the bracelets at her wrists made of leather and stone clicking together. "I find that the sort of attention I get is directly proportional to the clothing I wear. Dress like a cheap whore, get swarmed by men looking for one. Dress like someone who has a job to do, and you get things done."   
  
"Until you try and get into a place like this, where nobody comes to get anything except laid." Atton mentioned. "Look, just take the compliment. I get that you were a military general and all but you clean up alright. Nothing wrong with that."   
  
"Over there." Meetra said suddenly, not pointing but locking her eyes on her target and not removing them. "Let's go." She grabbed his hand and started shoving through the dance floor quickly but casually enough to not raise any alarm.   
  
He had to admit, she sure did seem to have more spring in her step than she did a few hours earlier. He recalled the dark, sunken circles under her eyes when they left the hangar and though it was over a week ago now, their escape from Peragus and the stale scent of vomit that had followed her into the cockpit once they'd made the jump to hyperspace. She was weak and she wasn't letting on, even an inch. He remembered his conversation with Kriea, about Jedi being strong and capable, and how deeply changes in their connection to the Force affected them.   
  
Maybe it was because she was numbed by liquor by now. Maybe that's how she she had chosen to cope. He supposed that finding over the counter meds for that sort of thing wasn't really a possibility.   
  
It stirred something inside of him that he didn't like.   
  
"You stay here." She ordered, letting go of his hand. "Just keep an eye on things and uh... jump in if they get weird."   
  
"Three gamorreans and a purple lingerie model?" He smirked, looking over her shoulder to see Meetra's intended target. "I think you'd win in a fight."   
  
"That's not what I meant. And uh... thanks for the drink flyboy. I guess we're square now, hey?" She said before straightening her hood and hurrying away.


	9. Chapter 9

For the first few years, he was an enigma to her. She was too shy to approach him, and too stubborn to just accept that perhaps he was simply not interested in a gawky adolescent female who bore too many freckles and always managed to tear holes in her robes.   
  
She had watched him carefully since the very first days she arrived at the Academy and had always stood just a little bit straighter whenever he was around. She was never really sure why until much later in life, but something about him intrigued her deeply.   
  
As far as surface appearances are concerned, the same could not be said for him: Their age gap was not substantial for his voice had just barely deepened by the time she started becoming lanky and under-fed looking as most young teenagers do, but regardless of the only slight distance in age, he never showed much interest in her.   
  
"Master Vash says it's completely normal for girls to get like this when we reach our age, however we must keep our wits and focus about us." Atris sagely observed as Meetra's eyes followed him as he walked across the garden.   
  
Meetra pulled a face and stirred the rice in her bowl distractedly. "Gross, Atris. It's not like that at all. Maybe for you, but not me."   
  
The snow-haired teen flushed a delicate pink and her eyes narrowed. "Not... not me!" She hissed quietly. "I don't... I would never!"   
  
"It's okay. Master Vash said it's completely natural, right?" Meetra smirked at her friend. "Betcha anything that Master Kavar and Master Vash have done it."   
  
Atris' face paled now, and the calm, cool countenance that she had developed of late reappeared. "As possible as that may be, you should be careful what you say, Meetra."   
  
Meetra smiled. Atris acted like she didn't approve, but she knew the girl well enough to know that secretly, she thought the idea to be hilarious.   
  
"How did you and Master Vash end up having such a conversation anyway?" Meetra asked perceptively. "That sort of material hardly seems pertinent to The Hundred Year Darkness."   
  
Atris puffed herself up a bit proudly. "Actually, I asked her. I've noticed of late, a number of females in our age group are acting increasingly distracted. I merely inquired as to why that may be."   
  
"For someone who reads so much, you sure do miss a lot, hey?" Meetra joked. "It's called puberty, Atris. It happens to everyone, even Jedi. It's not some mass conspiracy to destroy the galaxy."   
  
"Is that why you always have at least one eye locked on... him?" Atris' icy blue eyes swiveled in her head in the direction of a tall padawan sitting on the other side of the garden, cross legged, eating a bowl of fruit as his eyes scanned a datapad that was resting on his knee.   
  
"Don't be silly." Meetra quipped. "I've always had my eye on him, but not for the reason you think. There's just... something about him. There always has been. I feel like I should talk to him, but honestly... he scares me a bit."   
  
"Scares you?" Atris repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Coming from the one who taught the Kath hounds in the fields to play fetch, I find that hard to believe."   
  
"Not that kind of fear." Meetra explained. "Not like that at all. It's hard to explain, but whenever he's nearby, I feel like I need to watch him or keep an eye on him or something."   
  
"It's called puberty, Meetra. It happens to everyone." Atris repeated mockingly.   
  
Meetra chewed the inside of her lip distractedly for a moment, appearing to be deep in thought.   
  
"Meetra?"   
  
"You're right, Atris." She said, sliding off of the wall they were sitting on and landing on her feet with more grace than her long, thin legs betrayed. "There isn't anything to be afraid of at all."   
  
She set off across the garden, robes flapping around her, her figure all fabric and braids.   
  
"Can I have one?" She asked, casting her scrawny shadow over the hunched over padawan.   
  
"One what?" He asked, looking up at her.   
  
"One of your Hsuaberries."   
  
He didn't move to hand her one, he only waved his hand slightly and the pale berry flew obediently into her open palm. He looked at her with dark eyes for only a moment longer before returning to his datapad.   
  
He wasn't getting away that easily.   
  
"Thanks." She chirped, flopping down on the soft grass next to him. "Hey, what are you reading? My friend Atris, you know, the one with the white hair and fancy accent. Yeah. She likes to read too."   
  
"I'm reading Kafka." He said in that bored sounding tone of his. "Don't you like to read?"   
  
"Not the sort of stuff that Atris likes. All she reads are boring history accounts and biographies of diplomats and stuff." She popped the Hsuaberry in her mouth. "Hey, that was really neat, the way you used the Force to pass me the berry. I wish I was better at that sort of thing, but Master Kavar says I make up for it with my dueling."   
  
"Does he?" The padawan asked, raising an eyebrow incredulously. "Why can't you be good at both?"   
  
Meetra shrugged. "Good question, actually. Master Vrook says that the reason my ability to use the Force to affect my surroundings isn't as good as it should be, is because I'm never focused enough."   
  
The padawan nodded slowly, a lock of his dark hair falling over his right eye. "I could imagine that being a problem with you."   
  
"You do know who I am, right?"   
  
"You're Meetra Surik."   
  
"Because you sure act like you don't know me."   
  
"But I don't know you. I know of you."   
  
"Well that's because you've never bothered to try, now have you?" Meetra retorted, glancing around, left and right. "Where's your friend? The one with the complicated name?"   
  
"Alek is meditating. I've finished my lunch, so it's time for me to do the same. Master Kreia doesn't suffer tardy pupils." He tucked the datapad away in his robes and stood up.   
  
"Wait!" Meetra said, leaping to her feet, "Can I join you at dinner?"   
  
He regarded her wordlessly for a moment, his own padawan robes fit his frame better than Meetra's did, and they swirled a little around his ankles from the height he had gained already this year. Short robes aside, it was as if he was considering every inch of her, inside and out. Deciding if she was worthy.   
  
She held his gaze and offered a challenging smile, daring him to turn her down. She knew she was worthy.   
  
"I suppose. But only if you're interested in reading something other than history and biographies of long dead diplomats."   



	10. Chapter 10

It was raining hard that evening. It crashed against the window and blotted out what remained of the sun at this time of day. Occasionally the sound of thunder would crack the unrelenting rhythm of rain on glass, and the baby would cry.   
  
"Shhhh..." Dallon soothed, rubbing the back of the fussing infant as they sat in the dark bedroom in the modest Telosian apartment. He scooped the little girl up in his arms and shifted his weight from side to side, humming a little as he glanced out the rain-streaked window onto the pavement far below.   
  
His brow furrowed a little as movement in the storm caught his eye, illuminated by another flash of lightning: A figure slinking around in the rain.   
  
For what seemed like the millionth time that day, he wondered where Jil was. He couldn't do anything about it; she said she'd be back when she left the night before, leaving him alone to take care of their daughter. He didn't like being alone in this place, especially not with Andromeda. Telos was a definitive crap-hole, full of street gangs and desperate people that wouldn't think twice about breaking down a man's door to steal what little he had. He didn't want his little girl to grow up here, in a world of vertical concrete columns and glass and metal. He didn't want to have to keep her inside, stuck in front of the holovision because it was too dangerous to play outside with other children... he wanted the best life for Andromeda, not one lived in sheltered fear.   
  
Andromeda settled down, and into a bought of hiccups that occasionally jolted her little pyjama clad body.   
  
"You silly thing." Dallon smiled, stroking her soft, dark hair and running a thumb across her tiny cheek. "That's what happens when you let yourself get so worked up."   
  
"Mummmmm." The infant cooed, eyes awake and attentive, still full of lingering tears. Her pudgy index finger pointed out the window, through the rain.   
  
"Soon, sweet thing." Dallon said, enclosing her tiny hand in his own and returning to gazing out the window. His stomach went icy as he watched the dark blot of a figure finally saunter into the lobby of their building. "I need to put you in your crib just for a minute."   
  
Andromeda squirmed and protested and hopped from foot to foot as she held herself up by the bars of her prison.   
  
"Shhh, Andi." Dallon warned, putting his finger by his mouth and closing the door behind him as he left the room.   
  
Maybe he was just paranoid and crazy. Maybe he was thinking too hard or seeing things that weren't really there, but Dallon certainly wasn't mistaken about the intense feeling of unease he had felt in his gut since Jil had left the night before and not yet returned. She wasn't the kind of person to go missing for days on end. She was careful about leaving the apartment just to go and get food, so pulling her coat on at a quarter past ten at night and announcing she had to go out briefly, but would return later was an uncharacteristic move for his wife to make.   
  
He knew of the guilt she carried for making himself and their young daughter constantly shuffle from place to place, apartment to shanty, city to town... planet to planet. In the early days, it was an adventure: Constant excitement and adrenaline, and what better honeymoon for a Republic deserter and a Jedi? Things got tough though, once Jil fell pregnant and the bounty set on her by her former superior became a very real threat for both Dallon, and their unborn child.   
  
His hands shook a little bit as he unlocked the gun cabinet and retrieved his Republic issued blaster pistol. He scoffed inwardly at the amount of corrosion that had accumulated on the joints and smaller working parts.   
  
He loved his wife. Loved her more than life itself. Hell, they had both deserted the war for eachother. Both had been painted war-criminals, deserters, cowards. Being that she was a Jedi though, Jil's abandonment of the war effort had not been so neatly typed up and judicially presided over by a council of judges and diplomats.   
  
She'd been high up in the ranks, Jil. She was one of the few hand-picked Jedi who had joined the war effort that were given the task of serving under General Meetra Surik. Anyone serving under Surik knew they were guaranteed to see a lot of time in action, a lot of battles, and a lot of death. Dallon had never been much of a ground-troop, rather being more skilled at fighter piloting, but one didn't have to be on the ground to fully appreciate Surik's warpath.   
  
Disillusioned with her general's mania, Jil defected, and the pair of them eloped, and planned to live on Naboo and enjoy a relaxing life of peace and family. That lasted a couple of weeks, and then the assassins started showing up.   
  
Dallon could hardly believe that a Jedi would become so megalomaniacal to issue a bounty on one of their own, but unfortunately it was a reality, and Surik's trained pursuers were seemingly relentless.   
  
In the time after the war, the attacks became fewer and less shocking, as it was likely that the initiative to destroy any deserters was forgotten along with the disgraced general.   
  
Jil had never let her guard down though, and neither had Dallon. If anything, having Andromeda had made them even more wary and defensive of their footsteps.   
  
A cloaked citizen seeking shelter from the rain, or something more sinister?   
  
He put the pistol in the waistband of his pants and quickly set about tidying up the remnants of Andromeda's dinner, hiding her high chair in the closet and quickly stuffing any toys and blankets in whatever cupboards and containers were available. He could hear Andromeda burbling away in her bedroom still, despite the closed door, so he turned the holovision on to cover the noise. If someone had come looking for he or Jil, that was fine, but he didn't want to parade the fact that they had a child too.   
  
He'd just finished stuffing a few of Andi's books under the cushions of the couch when he heard the soft tapping at the door. His heart sunk as he picked himself up from the floor, suspicions confirmed.   
  
He pulled the blaster from his waistband and calmly opened the door a few inches.   
  
"Can I help you?" He asked through the crack.   
  
"I'm looking for Jillian Burtrand. Though I think she has taken a new name."   
  
"May I ask who this is?" Dallon said, not opening the door any further.   
  
"I am no threat to either of you, if that's what you're wondering." The stranger had a woman's voice, though it was rather muffled by the thick scarf that covered her face from her cheeks down. He couldn't make out much detail from the slim view he could see through the crack, but he could tell she was drenched, and her identity was purposely hidden.   
  
"Tell me who you are then." Dallon demanded.   
  
"I'm someone who needs to speak to Jil urgently, so I suggest you let me in."   
  
"Jil isn't here." He started closing the door.   
  
"Wait!" The woman said, jamming her foot in the gap so the door wouldn't close fully. "She's not safe here. There's... there's something I need to tell her."   
  
Dallon's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Are you a Jedi?"   
  
Serene blue eyes stayed focused on his own, "I'm as dead to the Force as you are, sir."   
  
He didn't know why he finally relented, but like a dam inside of him falling down, he could no longer support the running and the hiding and the fearful life lived in self-imposed exile.   
  
"You can come in," He said, opening the door. "And tell me what you mean to tell her. I wasn't lying when I said she isn't here right now."   
  
The woman entered the apartment and removed her outer coat, hanging it in the closet where Dallon hoped she hadn't noticed the child seat. She pulled off her dripping boots and pulled her hood down to reveal hair that was buzzed so close to the scalp that all remained was incredibly short dark stubble. The scarf, however, stayed and made her look rather like an egg resting in a black nest.   
  
"I won't bother you for long." She said, quietly shutting the closet door. "If I linger, you will be in greater danger than you already are."   
  
Dallon didn't move to stop her when she crossed the apartment and took a seat on the couch, using the controller to silence the holovision. He winced a little as Andi's whining permeated the sudden silence.   
  
"I think your child needs you." The woman said. "I'll wait."   
  
Resigning himself to the fact that he was not going to be able to hide their child from this stranger any longer, he got up and fetched her from her crib, cradling her against him as she calmed down.   
  
"What is it that you need to tell Jil?" He asked, rinsing off Andromeda's pacifier.   
  
"I said I would keep this short, so I will... I just wanted her to know that mistakes were made during the war. Big, huge ugly mistakes. So much more was lost than just lives. We lost our moral compass, many of us. I was one of the most lost ones. I just wanted her to know that, and that I'm so sorry for the past and for that time she'll never get back." She was staring at Andromeda. "I really shouldn't be here, but I had to risk it to tell her that. There will be no more assassins. Not from me at least, but you need to keep your wife safe. I feel like something is about to go awfully sideways."   
  
"You're her, then?" Dallon said, readjusting Andromeda. "The general."   
  
"You have to swear to me you will never speak of me being in this system, let alone on Telos."   
  
"What do I tell Jil?"   
  
"Exactly what I just said. Peace is a quiet time in which we delude ourselves into thinking that danger and war will never return... it will. Your wife is special to me. I owe her the chance to run before it's too late. Your little girl too... she has her mother's eyes."   
  
Dallon regarded the woman silently for a moment. How much of what she was saying was true? How much should he believe? This was, after all the woman who has essentially put a bounty on his wife's head, simply because they disagreed. This woman's image had been plastered across the holonews in recent months with headlines branding her a war criminal. You couldn't step outside without hearing about the inquiries and investigations and the insistence from the Jedi Council that they be allowed to handle it themselves. "Where do we go? Where will you go?"   
  
"Don't stop moving. I know it's hard, but don't stay in one place for long. Although she is no longer a member of the Jedi Order, I fear Jil's involvement is going to be enough to paint a target on her back." She stood up to leave.   
  
"Wait, wait, wait. A target? A target for who? What?"   
  
"I don't know yet." She answered, retrieving her coat and pulling on her boots. "I have to leave. I've been here too long already."   
  
"Will we hear from you again? Will you give us more information?"   
  
"I don't know yet." She repeated. "Just please, tell her what I told you when she returns." She didn't waste any time pulling her hood back up and bolting out the door. Dallon returned to the windows of the apartment and watched Meetra's figure until it became too dark to see in all the rain.   
  
"Mummmm." Andromeda hummed again, once again pointing out the window and looking quizzically at her father.   
  
"She'll be home soon, sweet thing." He promised, squeezing her tight and letting his worries go unspoken. The visit from the general and the fact that it was nearly midnight and Jil still hadn't returned made him feel sick inside. Something dark and spiny and evil inside of him told him that he would never see his wife again.   
  
He wasn't wrong.   



	11. Chapter 11

All had been in agreement when Meetra decreed that the Ebon Hawk and her crew would lay low in the uninhabited rolling plains of Dantooine until Bao-dur recovered from the concussion he had sustained on Telos, and T3 received some much needed repairs. It was a convenient excuse to buy the exiled Jedi some much needed time to put her feet properly under her again.   
  
Her unexpected meeting with Atris had fully unbalanced every modicum of stability she had worked so hard to cultivate within her up until this point. Even as she spoke to her old friend she told herself that all that had happened before was inconsequential to the here and now, that she cared little about Atris' animosity towards her, in fact she could barely blame her. Meetra was still technically exiled. Blundering back into Republic space was a circumstance that was bound to have negative repercussions. She understood completely why Atris spoke to her in a tone of disdain and loathing, for it was rooted partly in jealousy, and partly surprise that Meetra would even dare to come near Telos again. Meetra understood. She accepted it. It was no big deal.   
  
The dent her boot had left in the durasteel under the navicomputer told a different story, however.   
  
Exile had been incredibly convenient, despite the negative connotation that went with the description. In exile, she had been free to visit worlds she had never even dreamed of before, see things she didn't even fathom could possibly exist, gotten to know people who cared to know her simply for her own virtues, and not for the reason that she was a Jedi. She never had to tell the horror stories, she never had to talk about the decisions she made, nor apologize to the fathers and mothers and sons who she murdered.   
  
Exile, in and of itself turned out over the years to be a wonderfully liberating experience and she had never once dreamed she would be facing what she was today. It struck her as uncomfortably ironic that when she had returned from the war, prepared to accept full responsibility for her actions, she was chastised for them, but never really made to face the consequences, yet now she was dragged into a world of, "But why?"   
  
She never thought she'd be face to face with her childhood best friend, still scrambling for an explanation like she was the day she was condemned. She never thought she would have to witness, firsthand what had happened to Telos at the hands of her other dear friends in her absence.   
  
That alone raised other questions; would she have been able to stop Revan and… Malak?   
  
"Malak." She said the name out loud, testing its feel in her mouth. It felt completely improper and wrong. Alek was his name, and he was as dear to her as Revan had been. Revan had always been the thinker, constantly full of questions and ideas and dreams… and arguments. Alek had always been the one to get the job done. And as Meetra struggled to remember exactly where in the equation she fit in, she realized that at the end of the day, she was probably not a very good friend.   
  
Atris, Revan, Alek. All of them had such faith in her over the years, they supported her, helped her grow, and she in turn did the same things in return… for a time. Until, for all three very different relationships and circumstances, and different reasons that she constructed from dust and imagination in her own mind, she decided the loyalty no longer mattered.   
  
And all of those masters that used to "hmmm" and "ahhhh" and puzzle over this talent she had for forming bonds with others… how wrong they were. As far as Meetra was concerned, the real mystery involving these bonds was the bleed through that happened when she inevitably severed them.   
  
And Force be damned, where was she now? In the exact same predicament, forging these bonds with those who travelled with her: Her bond with Kreia may very well be fatal, it went that deep, and although it relieved her that Kreia seemed to disagree with her often and question almost every decision she made, she still didn't like the fact that she seemed to have no words for anybody else. And Atton, well, what was she supposed to do? Lock herself in a cargo container and never talk to him for fear of doing exactly what she had already done to nearly everyone else who had the misfortune of getting caught up in the hurricane that was her life? She could see it already; oh hey, thanks for getting me out of some rough scrapes, and being actually a quite interesting person who I can have good times with when someone isn't trying to disintegrate us, but you know, I really should be going now. I've found a reason to justify it to myself, but that doesn't matter much right in the long run. It is what it is. So anyway… thanks, I had fun.   
  
Bao-dur even, although she hadn't as yet had much time to speak with him… how far back did that bond go? Just the way he looked at her suggested that he had some sort of underlying… desire, for what, she couldn't say yet.   
  
She sighed and dug around in the pocket of her utility belt, withdrawing a small carved stone whistle.   
  
"I wonder if this'll work…" she mused, bring the whistle to her lips and emitting a short, sharp breath. The shrill sound echoed out over the plains and faded away, carried by the dry prairie wind until silence fell once more. Her hand fell back to her side and she gazed across the golden foothills; this side of the planet had been more or less untouched by the Sith bombardment, bearing hardly any craters or signs of destruction. It had been for the most part, wilderness before save for a few farm settlements strewn across the landscape. But by the looks of it, her call went unanswered. The pack that had lived near the enclave was likely destroyed during the bombing. It had been years. Even if they lived, they would have probably forgotten her by now.   
  
It was worth a try.   
  
She tucked the whistle back in her belt and continued trudging back to the ship, her mind no lighter than it had been when she had left early that morning. The light was verging on dusky now.   
  
She had been digging around in the pocket of her jacket for a cigarra when she heard the first growl. Her head snapped up and she glanced side to side quickly. She could see the Ebon Hawk from where she was; a distant blot, cutting a shape through the twilight. There was another snap, accompanied by a bark. She looked behind her to see a large four legged figure trotting towards her, up the hill. She squinted in the dim ochre light, her hand held still above her blaster. That hand fell to her side when she glimpsed the creature loping directly towards her.   
  
"Malifecus?"   
  
She was answered by two enormous paws planting themselves on her shoulders and shoving her to the ground. All around her now there were yips and howls as a wet, leathery nose probed her face suspiciously. She stayed completely still, offering no resistance: She knew this hound. He would remember her too.   
  
She groaned uncomfortably at the weight pressing down on her chest, but she didn't struggle until the Kath hound's investigation was complete. With a final and enormous snort of air that blew her hair back, he removed his paws from her chest and stood by her head, tail wagging.   
  
"I sure am glad you're still alive." She said, crawling to her feet and brushing some dried grass from her pants. "I thought for a minute I was all alone." She smiled at the Kath hound and held out a hand for him to sniff before he allowed her to scratch the top of his head. As much as she wanted to fall to her knees and embrace the enormous canine, she knew better: She hadn't so much as tamed them in her youth than earned their respect. They tolerated her, enjoyed the scraps of food she would smuggle out for them, and tussle with her, but by no means were these creatures tamed pets. She had named them, back when she was still a freckly adolescent, but only so she could remember how to tell them apart. There was Maleficus, the alpha male with black paws and ears, Mandalore, the younger male who was always trying to best Maleficus, and… and, Molly, the huntress. She was tall and sleek and a beautiful auburn colour. She had been little more than a pup when Meetra still lived on Dantooine. Meetra looked around, trying to spot the other two familiar hounds, but was interrupted by a paw gently swatting her across the thigh.   
  
"Well, would you look at that." She smiled, watching as the hunting queen of the pack appeared from behind a Blba tree, flanked by a number of pups. Her nose was pressed to the ground, and her tail was between her legs as she glared up at Meetra, trying to judge whether she was friend of foe. "No, no… it's okay." She said soothingly, "I came out here just to find you, so I thought I should bring something." She dug around in her satchel a little and pulled out a hunk of Iriaz meat that was left over from her lunch that day. She threw it to Molly and the hound sniffed it suspiciously for a few moments before backing away and letting her pups at it.   
  
"Yeah, I brought more." She laughed, pulling out another steak when another wet nose bumped into her wrist. The hound next to her was a lovely silver shade, with deep brown eyes. "Wouldn't be right if Mandalore wasn't around, hey?" She took up some grass on the earthy incline, hucking pieces of Iriaz over the field, watching as the hounds chased it down and devoured it happily. Something about the fact that the pack that she knew as a youngling was safe and healthy made her insanely happy. Molly had pups, Malifecus had become a capable leader and kept the pack alive, despite the destruction of much of the planet, and Mandalore seemed to have found a good balance within the society, no longer appearing to be as neurotic and unpredictable as he had been when Meetra knew him best.   
  
And they remembered her.   
  
They didn't try to eat her. They didn't judge her for the choices she'd made in the war; they had no idea. All they knew was that this two-legged thing had come back after a long time, and they remembered that she would feed them, and fight with them, and treat them with respect. She could wrestle Malifecus into submission without any of her fancy laser-sticks or fire-cannons and that was enough for them. Fearless and determined was what she had been as a child, and to approach a Kath pack was a mighty gutsy thing to do. It was the definition of what her talent for bonding should have been: She didn't want to kill them. She didn't want to help them or be a part of their pack. She just wanted to know them. She smiled quietly to herself as a pup tumbled over her outstretched legs, searching for more meat. She gave its downy little tail a little tug and handed it a shin, laughing in earnest as she watched the tiny beast try and carry away the limb that was twice its size. The laugh was driven from her violently when she was tackled to the ground by sturdy paws. She picked herself up, sitting back on her ankles as she saw Malifecus pacing in front of her, his tongue hanging out of his mouth.   
  
"Oh I see, it has been awhile, hasn't it? You've gotten big. I don't know if I can win anymore." She crowed with laughter and launched herself at the alpha male, catching him around the middle and rolling down the hill, a mess of legs and limbs. The huge animal flung himself a safe distance from her before charging at her again, snapping at the looser part of her clothing with care one would not anticipate from such an animal. "Oh-ho-ho!" Meetra laughed, placing her hands on either side of his front flanks and taking them both to the ground again. "Tough man here! Gotta protect your honour!" Malifecus snarled and growled and struggled and squirmed as he and Meetra chased one another across the grassland, tackling and charging, hooting and howling. Meetra laughed harder the more the battle progressed, absolutely elated for reasons she couldn't even begin to articulate.   
  
She was in complete stitches, unable to draw full breaths, partly for exhaustion and partly for the fact that she hadn't stopped laughing for a good ten minutes.   
  
"Alright, alright. You got me. I-I can't ahhhh-" She dissolved into another bout of hysterical laughter but it didn't last long. The gleeful howls and chatter from the pack turned to legitimate defence as hackles all rose simultaneously at the blaster fire that suddenly rained down the hill. Night had fallen by this time, and Meetra scrambled to her feet without a thought, sprinting up the steep hill towards the source of the fire, even though darkness provided her a very obvious disadvantage.   
  
"Hey!" She bellowed, unclipping her blaster as she ran. She looked behind her to see the pack scattering back into the trees and her fury was compounded. "Hey, whoever you are, you better stop firing like a drunk mercenary before things get really unpleasant!" She crested the hill and put her blaster by her cheek, illuminating the shooter with her utility light. "Atton?"   
  
He lowered the hand he had brought up to block the suddenly bright light and blinked a few times before lowering his gun as well. "I thought it was you."   
  
"Is this normally how you greet people you think you know?" She snapped, holstering her blaster.   
  
"I heard them howling and barking like they'd made a kill. I went out for a smoke and I heard it, and I thought you were in danger… I knew you were out here."   
  
"Think!" Meetra hissed. "Next time, fracking think, Atton! Instead of just blazing in with guns firing and assumptions already made!" Her words came out louder and with far more anger than she had intended them to.   
  
"Hey, I did think! As far as I know, anytime there's a noisy group of carnivores around making a racket, something is either dead, or dying. What would you have me do? Just shrug and assume the worst and get on with what I was doing?"   
  
"I would certainly have you not take such arrogant liberties." Meetra retorted.   
  
"Yeah well maybe before you frack off for an entire day in the middle of nowhere, you should enlighten people to the fact that you're best buds with a pack of bloodthirsty animals." He holstered his own gun and glared at Meetra. "Don't make the mistake, doll. I won't come to your rescue again unwarranted."   
  
Meetra shook her head, all of her frustration and exasperation pent up and unable to mask any longer. "Why are you even still here?"   
  
"The hell is that supposed to mean?"   
  
"No, it's a serious question. Why are you here? We could have dropped you off at Khoonda before coming out here. We could have even spared the fuel to drop you off at Citadel Station before we left Telos so you could catch a transport."   
  
"Don't you concern yourself with my time, Surik. I'll be gone when I decide to be gone." He sneered at her, full of arrogance and condescension. "I can't see it being long. You obviously don't need me around."   
  
She had already formed the sentence in her head; I need you like a whore needs crabs. But she couldn't say the words. Instead, a completely different phrase fell from her lips.   
  
"I'm sorry." She said. "The hounds… we go way back. I should have told you. I could see where the entire… violently wrestling in the grass thing could be misconstrued as attack." She smiled a little, "You should have seen Master Kavar when he found out about them when I was still a padawan. He headed the rescue team and couldn't wrap his head around a twelve year old girl playing tag with a pack of Kath hounds rather than being devoured by them… I think that's the angriest he ever was at me."   
  
"In that case, I'm sorry I scared them off." He relented.   
  
Meetra dismissed the apology. "Like I said, it wasn't the first time. They'll be back. They know me. I was actually going to head back fairly soon anyway, it'll be good to have company on the walk back."   
  
"You must be pretty tired, hey? Being out here all day…"   
  
The little bit of hope in Atton's voice did not go un-noticed by Meetra.   
  
"I'll be up for awhile yet. Care for a drink or two?" She smiled.   



	12. Chapter 12

She reached out and caught a small, glowing wad of Blba pollen in her hand gently enough that it didn't shatter. "Once Revan and Alek left, I knew I had to go as well." She brought the cottony pollen to her face and blew, sending a seemingly infinite amount of faintly glowing seeds into the night sky where they were indistinguishable from the stars that shone brightly and unpolluted by civilization. "I wouldn't be me if it wasn't for them and it's no easy task being the only girl invited to an all boys party, you know? And I think if that if I hadn't left, I would have always felt like people assumed I didn't just because I wasn't a man. I guess back then I felt like I had something to prove... that I could play rough with the fellas too."   
  
"But you were a Jedi. Why would that even factor in?" Atton asked, pouring her another drink and sliding it to her across the roof of the Ebon Hawk where they both sat.   
  
"Jedi or not, there were decisions to be made." She took a swig. "Atris was the real reason I left." She admitted. "When the two of us were young, she would always come up with some daring plan or scheme, but at the last minute would always change her tune and back out. She always wanted to do so many things, but when the moment came to actually take the risk and throw her destiny into the air, she would shrink away. Did you know that she was the one who wanted to follow Alek in the first place? She brought it up and mentioned how noble the cause was, and consequences be damned, we should do it anyway. We both met secretly with Alek and a number of other Jedi interested in joining the cause, and where I came from that meeting inspired and exhilarated, she left it with pursed lips and a worried frown. I tried to convince her to come too, that it wouldn't be so bad, and that she probably wouldn't even have to fight very much at all; Revan and Alek were going to need book-keepers and historians to keep record of the effort... someone had to. But she seemed unsure, and the morning I left, she begged me not to leave." Meetra leaned back on the palms of her hands and tilted her head up to the stars. "I wasn't angry at her. I didn't raise my voice, or tell her she was wrong, but I told her the truth. I told her that I thought her to be a coward; that she talked a big talk, but could never hope to experience any sort of transcendent enlightenment in life if she lived it in a dark room, buried up to her eyes in datapads and holocrons. I told her I'd be waiting for her, and that I'd miss her terribly and that I hoped she understood." Atton watched Meetra's eyes wandering from star to star as she spoke. "She called me a fool and went back inside the enclave. The next time I saw her was at my trial and she thought it was a fine idea that I be put to death for my crimes."   
  
"Not that I'm someone you could class as over-critical, but I think you should have killed her when you had the chance."   
  
Meetra laughed derisively. "Yeah? You think so? Because I think that if I had raised a blade to her on Telos, she wouldn't have stopped fighting until I was dead."   
  
"I thought you said she was a librarian."   
  
"A librarian that has had an incredibly long time to simmer in jealousy and spite, and who no doubt was not ignorant to the fact that had she decided to kill me in that ice hole, no one would have ever known." Meetra smiled at Atton before returning her gaze to the night sky. "She let us leave that place and part of me hopes that it's because despite her vitriol, a part of her still sort of wants to follow me, or at the very least, see what I do next. Perhaps it's just taken her this long to work up the courage to actually do something risky."   
  
"You leave wreckage wherever you go, don't you?" Atton observed, lighting two cigarras and passing her one. She accepted it without removing her eyes from the black ceiling.   
  
"Who doesn't in some way or another?" She asked. "Honestly, though... name one person in the entire existence of the cosmos who hasn't hurt someone else intentionally at one time or another."   
  
"Is this some kind of Jedi riddle?" Atton scoffed, letting his eyes wander to the same pocket of stars Meetra was currently fixated on.   
  
"I always did enjoy riddles." She mused into the darkness, happy with this flow of conversation. "What can you sustain with food, yet if you give it water, it will die?"   
  
"I'm not doing this." Atton said. "I hate riddles."   
  
"You just don't like thinking."   
  
"Nope. I like drinking. I'm good at it."   
  
"Why can't you be good at both?" Meetra said slyly. "It doesn't matter, you're stuck now. Now that I've told you the riddle, it's all you'll be able to think about until you solve it."   
  
"I've honestly already forgotten it." He said dismissively.   
  
"I'm sure you have." Meetra said quietly, allowing silence to fall between the two of them. She very much liked something about being in this proximity – for want of a better word – to this person. As weak as she still felt as far as the Force was concerned, there was a peculiar ebb of energy between the pair of them. There were gaudy grey boundaries, pulled taught like the webs of some sort of jungle arachnid and a very deliberate sort of distance in the currents she sensed, but those things went both ways and were curiously mingled with a nebulous and pale shade of calm blue-green waves that broke around the hull of the ship like a sea of sorts. She wished she could tell him what she saw, but at the risk of sounding stupid, she held her tongue and focused once again on the infinite night sky and the depth that the view presented her with: Many of the stars visible to her eyes from the roof of the Ebon Hawk, and this field on Dantooine, were gone. Hyperspace travel had made it possible to cross star systems and even navigate the entire galaxy in a manageable matter of time, but technological advance had not changed the laws of time and space: It had happened many times before, when an explorer bound for a new system would arrive thousands of light years away to find nothing but the remnants of a collapsed star and the broken and frigid carcasses of the planets that once orbited it when it was first spotted.   
  
The cosmos made themselves so attainable to sentient life, yet always seemed to remain one step ahead of giving away all of their secrets.   
  
"Anything interesting up there?" Atton finally broke the silence and her concentration, and she tore her gaze away and looked at him. His face had odd shadows cast on it by the utility lights the had set near them for some sort of illumination. In this light, he looked an awful lot like someone she used to know.   
  
"Oddly enough, they've always made more sense to me than anything else. I always feel at home when I'm looking up. It's as if I know them or they know me or something stupid like that. Jedi Masters always talk about our infinite connection with the Force, but I always felt far more connected with the Force in relation to stars than I did in relation to moving rocks and boxes with my mind... or even people. There's more to stars than the Force and some sort of coincidence at an atomic scale, I think."   
  
"You know, I'm not sure why, but in some way or another, I think I get what you're laying down."   
  
"Yes, that tends to happen to people around me." She remarked placidly.   
  
The blue-green waves squirmed away towards Atton a little at her words: Whatever she had just said had made him uncomfortable in some way.   
  
"Does something about me make you uncomfortable?" She asked boldly. Take time to be deliberate, but when the time for action comes, stop thinking and go in.   
  
He surprised her when he replied without missing a beat. "Nah, I mean nothing apart from the fact that you can pants me with your mind, but depending on who you ask, that could be a plus." The waves returned to the way they had been before; predictable, rhythmic and calm. She wondered more than ever what exactly it was that he was so inwardly stand-offish about. She wouldn't judge; she was a war criminal. a murderer, a fallen Jedi, by most definitions. And yet, she couldn't justify revealing the depth of her crimes to him, so why should she expect the same? No, for now, things were meant to remain on the surface, and were not meant to delve much deeper. The waves touched her, and passed her and broke on her and told her that patience would bring answers to her questions. After all, honesty was one of the best interrogation techniques around.   
  
"You haven't been sick since we left Telos." Atton remarked, snatching her hand in the dark and placing the bottle of liquor in it. The corner of her mouth twitched when his hand left hers. "You look a bit more alert."   
  
"I think it was just Atris being on the same planet as me." She admitted, passing the bottle to her other hand and leaning back on her right side, where she was closer to Atton. "Bad energy, I guess. Too much of... everything for my addled Jedi brain to handle at once." Her grip on the whiskey bottle slipped and it slammed sideways onto the hull of the ship with a loud clunk and a slosh of drink that showered them both. "Dammit!" She cursed, quickly righting the bottle and flicking her hand dry. "Sorry about that." She said, feeling her cheeks go red. "Here, let me..." She started yanking the bandana out of her hair when Atton cut in.   
  
"Honestly the amount of times I've accidentally had liquor dumped on me is far outweighed by the times I actually deserved it." He said, his voice full of humour and amusement. "I was actually gonna – all night you've had soot, or something on your face." The last few words came out as a laugh of sorts.   
  
"Oh, I cooked my lunch over a fire earlier." She said, reaching up to her face.   
  
"Here, I've got it. You've got it all over your hands too, you'll just make a bigger mess." He reached over and rubbed the black smudge on the side of her nose away. "There, now you don't look quite so insane."   
  
"Insane?" She repeated, catching him by the wrist when his fingers did not leave her cheek, but rather stayed where they were as he looked at her with an intensity that could not be mistaken for anything other than a wordless challenge. "That may very well be true, but I've always operated under the philosophy that it takes one to know one."   
  
She kissed him and she liked it and it wasn't just because it had been quite a long time since she had been kissed, but rather because at the moment, he was someone that she wanted to kiss. Did it really need further justification?   
  
And he kissed her back like he meant it. She knew fully that this could be attributed to a combination of two different things: Significant experience and proper earnestness... there was nothing more off-putting than a man who was afraid to put his tongue in your mouth or thought that a proper snog meant mimicking some sort of darty-tongued reptilian behaviour.   
  
Gordo Wils had always kissed like that. He always turned kissing into a strange and incredibly awkward undertaking: Tedious wasn't the right word, but it was the first word that came to mind. When he kissed her, her walls flew up rather than falling down as she always imagined they would. The bond she had selfishly created between them by doing riddles, drinking wine and shamelessly flirting in general, would visibly pull away from her and towards him during moments of intimacy, often leaving her feeling unclean and bare, uncomfortable and unsatisfied like she had just done him a favour, while he would feel invigorated and smitten as a child.   
  
Alek had kissed as well as any experimental and rebellious teenager possibly could have; with a brave confidence and shy clumsiness in regard to the subtleties of touch and sensation, but kissing Alek had always made her smile inside and out. Maybe the reason for that was because she knew that she didn't love him in any emotional measure, but honestly just really, really enjoyed his friendship, and frankly, one has to practice kissing with someone they like, don't they?   
  
There were one or two other kisses she'd had that were worth remembering... some of them she chose to forget for the regrets that went with them.   
  
This, however... this was the kiss of a man in his early thirties, who had been around, seen some things, done some things, and certainly held his cards close to his chest. The gentle waves that had surrounded them under the stars changed only slightly, rolling closer together than they had moments earlier, but there was no pull, no struggle like there had been with Wils, and no frenzied fluctuations as there had been when she and Alek were two teenagers experiencing the touch of another for the first time.   
  
It seemed that with both the good and the bad, things never worked out very well for the people she kissed, so she decided right then and there to nip this in the bud because as undesirable as the decision was, it was the right thing to do.   
  
"Stop it." She said quietly smiling, still close enough to Atton to count the flecks of gray in his eyes and smell the whiskey on his breath (and face.)   
  
"Stop what?"   
  
Her whole body felt hot and she knew her cheeks were the awful splotchy red they went when she was flustered.   
  
"Stop it." She said again, because you're starting to take steps down a road that I know I will have no control over.   
  
"I have no idea what you're talking about." He smirked.   
  
"Just stop it." She repeated once more, desperately trying to hide her own coy smile behind the neck of the liquor bottle. I already like you well enough to not want to use your heart like a foot-sack. Trust me flyboy, it'll happen. My ability to explain myself right now is severely diminished, so just please don't ask any more questions...   
  
"Why? You're not a virgin are you? Because I'd call you a damn liar if you said you were." He was trying to goad her into bed, and had she been just a little more drunk and just a little less mindful of her actions, she might have allowed him to. "It doesn't matter if you want it back, you've given it away."   
  
"Stop it." Why can't I say anything else? Words fail me, and my brain has fallen out.   
  
"Whatever you say, but you need to stop it too."   
  
"Stop what?" She said, genuinely confused, trying to regain some semblance of control over the speech centres of her brain before she said something she really would regret: A poorly thought through and rushed explanation that would likely end it disaster was the last thing she wanted to do right now.   
  
"Hogging all of the whiskey. Want another smoke?"   
  
"Yes." She said. "And... stop it."   
  
Stop giving me reasons to want you to do that again is what I'm trying to say, here.


	13. Chapter 13

"Yes, Kreia?" Meetra said, sitting back on her heels and wiping her forehead with the back of her wrist. "Do you need the facilities? Can you wait ten minutes? I don't think this toilet has ever been cleaned, and whoever was using it before made a point of pissing on as much of the seat as humanly possible."   
  
The cryptic woman stood in the doorway and didn't move at Meetra's acknowledgement.   
  
"You seem to be quite pre-occupied with chores these days... how curious." Some sort of dark amusement crept into her voice.   
  
"Like I said, pissy toilet seats don't sit well with me." She rinsed the rag she was using in the bucket of water next to her and returned to vigorously scrubbing the metal bowl. "The refresher had some sort of mushroom growing in the corner of it, there were life forms in the kitchen storage that were likely nearing a cultural renaissance by the time I finally removed them, and the crew dormitories smelled like the inside of a boot."   
  
"Cleaning is hardly the task at hand if you ask me."   
  
"I didn't." Meetra said with a note of finality that suggested she was not taking this conversation any further. "Bao-dur's ears have finally stopped ringing and he started working on T3 this morning. We'll leave tomorrow for Khoonda."   
  
"And of the activities you appear to be engaging in during the evenings..."   
  
"- Those are also something I didn't swing a door open and invite you into."   
  
The corners of Kreia's mouth turned down in frustration. "Neither you, nor the fool you call a pilot returned the other night, and your absence was noted. You ought to be spending time focusing inwards on re-building your connection to the Force... re-training yourself from all those years of no discipline, not gallivanting around in the grass with a scoundrel. "   
  
But it was so fun. Meetra couldn't keep the smile from creeping onto her face: She and Atton had snuck quietly on board that night and dug out some old bed rolls from the cargo hold and slept on the roof of the Hawk. "Want a hear an interesting story?" Meetra asked, poking her tongue out of the corner of her mouth as she scrubbed at a particularly stubborn bit of filth. "I never had my braid cut. I grew dreadlocks over it and joined a war instead. The day I finally cut my braid, I did it by my own hand at the end of the war when the Force left me. I have no braid now, and so I need no Master." She dunked the rag in the soapy water again and looked at Kreia. "Don't get me wrong. I don't mind you around, and I'll be sure to come to you when I have questions, but I'm not an antsy pupil who needs to be taught a lesson." She waved a soapy hand at the small digital console on the wall and the music that was playing in the room changed. "Was nice of Bao-dur to get the sound system in this thing working again."   
  
"Some of us don't share the same opinion. This constant racket makes meditation challenging."   
  
"Revan always used to be a real jerk when I complained that something was too hard. Eventually I learned to stop complaining and spend my energy on overcoming instead." She wrung the cloth and went back to work, when she looked up again, Kreia was gone.   
  
She'd more or less recovered from the emotional shock of seeing Atris so unexpectedly again, but was now grappling with the repercussions of her actions the other night: It was basically a rule of thumb when one was any sort of crew member on a ship going somewhere: Don't sleep with, or get involved with anyone else on the crew. Sleep with and get involved with people on the planets you visit.   
  
But, the proof was in the fodder, and Meetra had disregarded that ages old rule haphazardly for her whole military career: It started with Alek, then went on to Jil, and then finally Gordo.   
  
One would think that a nice lengthy exile would cool off such tendencies, but it clearly hadn't because now she was up to her elbows in toilet water thinking about how good her pilot smelled.   
  
She gave the toilet rim one last rather vicious wipe down before falling onto her back and turning her attention to the surface under the toilet which was, as she predicted equally as heinous as the rest of it.   
  
She sighed exasperatedly when the song she was listening to abruptly cut out.   
  
"I don't know what kind of ships you've travelled on before, Kreia, but the unwritten and unspoken rule is that the pilot picks the music, and seeing as this is my ship-"   
  
"Pilot picks the music. You just said it."   
  
"I'll thank you to please put 'Space Oddity' back on, it's one of my favourites." She said brusquely, continuing her work.   
  
"Glam rock from nearly a century ago? Didn't take you to be the type for tight pants and makeup."   
  
"Gotta sing it from the hair, man." She grunted, chiseling away a chunk of mildew with her fingernail. "Sith's Blood, Atton, Warrant? Honestly?"   
  
When no reply came, she sat up to see that Atton had gone.   
  
"Ass." She muttered, switching the music back with a wave and returning to her labour. Not moments later she caught herself humming the tune she assumed that Atton called music."Pilot picks the music. You just said it." She mumbled as she swabbed away. "Always got something clever to say – Cherry Pie, what a joke - " She jumped and nearly kicked over her water bucket when someone tapped the toe of her boot. "What now?! Oh!" She leaned back against the side of the toilet and dropped the rag back in the bucket of water when she saw Atton standing over her with a cup of caffa. "I really can't take that right now... my arms are covered in toilet water, but thanks." She looked at him suspiciously. "What's the occasion?"   
  
"Well, I've never cleaned a toilet in my life and plan to keep it that way, and it definitely seems like a two-handed job, so that means the old lady is out of the equation, and from what I know about currents, Bao-dur's arm and water probably don't mix well, which means you're the only one around here doing this glamorous job."   
  
She laughed and brought herself to her feet, taking a minute to wash her hands thoroughly in the sink before taking the steaming hot drink. "Thanks, I suppose." She said, leaning on the counter and shooting him a dirty look. "If there's a single drop of urine on that seat next time though... the rest of you will be drawing straws to be doing this."   
  
"Oh please. You're one of the messiest people I've ever met."   
  
"Not true." She countered quietly with a tight smile.   
  
"True." He said, lighting a cigarra, "This is my last one, we'll have to split it." She nodded and he went on, "Anyways, you spill everything, I found a nest of socks under the console in the cockpit the other day, and if you take a good look around, I guarantee there are at least three half empty cups of caffa laying around. I would put credits on it." He finished smugly and passed her the smoke.   
  
"There go your chances of me giving this back." She said, nodding at the smoke before taking a drag. "Kreia would kill us if she caught us smoking in here."   
  
Atton rolled his eyes and shrugged. "What's she gonna do, bore us death?"   
  
"Possibly." Meetra said, ashing the cigarra into the basin of the sink. "So are you just gonna hang out here and watch me smoke my cigarra, or what? Don't you have something to be doing?"   
  
"Don't appreciate my company?"   
  
"I'm busy. If you want to stay, pick up a rag and start cleaning, Atton." She relented on her promise and held the smoke out to him, giving him a smile when he took it back, she occupied her mind with Cherry Pie when his fingers touched hers only slightly in the exchange.   
  
"Shouldn't have given it back." He flashed his teeth at her and she merely pursed her lips into a flat line. "Like I said, I don't plan on adding toilet-cleaner to my resume anytime soon, so I'll leave you to it." He stuck the smoke in the corner of his mouth and started strolling out the door.   
  
"Wait." She called, taking off after him. He turned around and raised an eyebrow. "We're going to Khoonda tomorrow... Bao-dur is feeling better and is working on T3 right now, but I don't want to push him too hard... will you come with me to the settlement?"   
  
"Well… just don't get too attached to me, I don't like it."   
  
You and me both, buddy.   



	14. Chapter 14

In a burnt out mansion on Onderon, Meetra sat, gazing out of the charred skeleton of the home and into the clean, clear view of space that hung above. The sound of celebration and cheer came from the garden below her and she smiled in her silence, happy that her men were able to at last relax and take time to savour their accomplishments thus far.   
  
The majority of the week had been spent driving Mandalorian troops out of the less populated parts of the planet; mostly farms and country-side manor properties such as this. Looting and pillaging such places was one of the Mandalorian's largest sources of food, currency and medical supplies. Choking them out of the area had dealt them a heavy blow and it was bound to make them more wary and vulnerable until they could find another source of supplies.   
  
The operation had come at a cost, though. Lives were lost, and the enemy made a distinct point of burning everything that they could not take with them, meaning homes were destroyed and acres of farmland were now torched and barren, displacing hundreds of people.   
  
She lit a cigarra and reached out to her left to the melted fake plant that sat next to the armchair she was occupying that still reeked of smoke. She'd started smoking pretty regularly in the last two weeks. It was a terrible habit and she knew it, but the stress had finally broken her. "I'm worn out." She said to the leaf that she yanked off and held in her fingertips before tucking it into her hair. No doubt she should leave the structurally unsound house and join the party below that sounded so raucous, but she just couldn't bring herself to make moves, preferring to observe from a distance and sip the fine wine that had been left remarkably unspoiled in the fire that had taken this particular home.   
  
She didn't feel like herself these days. Battles were being won, her men were steadfastly loyal to her and seemed to genuinely love serving under her, media outlets were constantly attempting to contact her to get a precious interview with the Jedi wonder-child who was always on the front lines with her men to give command. Revan was thrilled with her accomplishments, and delegated more and more to her every day as she built herself up in his eyes as someone capable and driven.   
  
By all measures and definitions, Meetra should have felt like a million credits, a shining star, and an unstoppable force to be reckoned with, but the fact that Alek hadn't spoken to her in days would not leave her mind.   
  
She got the sense that her increasing involvement with major decisions made in terms of strategy, battle tactics and enlistment was not sitting well with him, and her suspicions were confirmed when she had finally confronted him about it, noting his distance and reluctance to speak of anything important around her.   
  
He kindly insulted her to the core by placidly explaining that he was merely concerned that she was getting in over her head, and that it would be a shame to see anything happen to her. He did care quite deeply for her, after all, and that meant she should be kept safe and not trouble herself with the burdens that both he and Revan carried.   
  
She said, "I am not proud, I am just taking orders." And then spouted off a few choice words that would have made a Coruscanti spice smuggler blush, before abandoning what remained of her dinner and retreating to her quarters where she stayed until her shuttle left for Onderon the following day.   
  
She considered herself to have a fairly tolerant ego when it came to taking an insult or two, but what Alek had said was emotional treason: What was even the point of being there if the ideal situation was for her to just sit around at meetings and make notes and spend the rest of her time looking pretty for cameras? Her ability had been questioned. Her strength had been challenged, and for what, jealousy? Or the fact that Alek liked her soft skin and would hate to see it damaged?   
  
She hated to think that her resulting anger had been what had won them so many clean cut victories this week, but it certainly seemed to be true: Her resolve to crush this threat had increased ten-fold since that last conversation with Alek, and some dark part inside of her couldn't wait to see him again and shove in his face the neatly typed up records of the battles that demonstrated that her men worked as a smooth unit, coordinated and concise in their technique because of her leadership. What was he doing right now?   
  
Sitting on his luxurious ship, enjoying the finer things in life no doubt…   
  
She hadn't bathed in four days, and was covered with mud, blood, sweat and grime. She wasn't sitting around complaining like some pampered senator's daughter… she had a job to do, and luxuries like bathing were not going to cause her worry until she was good and finished.   
  
So where did the doubt come in?   
  
She vacated the chair and stood by the smashed out window, looking down on the garden. It had remained mostly unspoiled by the fire, and the grass was still green and soft and well manicured. Flowers bloomed on the hedges surrounding the garden, and shadows were cast on the leafy walls by the troops socializing around the bonfire they had set.   
  
Drinks poured freely, as Meetra had given them free reign to loot what food and drink they could find; if Onderon remained loyal to the Republic, they would be compensated for everything, and their job wasn't done yet. In the morning they were due to mobilize further east, towards the coast. A hard battle awaited them there, for the Mandalorian's had their backs to the ocean, and for a ground assault, that was nearly damning for any who tried to attack.   
  
She watched her men from the burned out house, overheard small snippets of conversation and caught the rhythm of laughter and socialization. Lieutenant Criggs was sitting in a wooden chair by the fire, roasting a steak over the flames on a stick and speaking animatedly to a pair of soldiers that she knew were greener. He was no doubt telling them all about his early days as a soldier, with all the detail and charisma that a man of his station could muster. Her quartermaster, Ramos was chatting with a handsome female grenadier who had signed on with them a few months ago, and her Jedi counterpart Jil was playing pazaak by the marble fountain with one of the children the company had vindicated from Mandalorian slavery earlier that day. She sunk back into the shadows when Jil undoubtedly sensed her watching and looked up at the window.   
  
It was going well.   
  
She didn't need to be there.   
  
Watching was fine.   
  
She eased herself back into the chair and withdrew her datapad from within her robes and accessing one of the books she had downloaded onto it before she left. Revan had recommended it to her before she left. It was an ancient classic, written by a long-dead playwright about a prince who sought revenge on his uncle for murdering his father, the king. Revan had called it a "tragedy" and for the life of her she was still trying to figure out why he had suggested such depressing reading material to her in the first place: Revan never suggested anything without having some sort of underlying purpose behind it.   
  
The woman in this play, Ophelia, was forlorn and broken-hearted because her prince was so consumed by revenge that he had lost touch with her and everything around him. He had gone insane, as it appeared on the surface: She fought for his attention but to him, she had become nearly invisible.   
  
Where was Revan going with this?   
  
Madness in great ones must not unwatched go.   
  
Her mind lingered on that particular line until footsteps on cracked, dry flooring tore her from her musing.   
  
"Are you going to come enjoy the party, or just sit in a ruin all night?" Jil asked, coming up beside her and handing her a bottle of some sort of sweet liqueur. "I'm not the only one who's noticed you're not there."   
  
"I'll join in when I'm good and ready." Meetra said a bit stiffly.   
  
"You're just being cranky." Jil said, leaning against splintered window sill, resting her hand on the hilt of her lightsaber.   
  
I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.   
  
Her companion had a lean, athletic look to her, and Meetra watched her long, toned muscles move under her robe as she drank from her glass. Meetra could see from where she sat that it was Spore-mead, an exotic and uncommon thing to find on a planet like Onderon. It tinted Jil's lips a deep plum shade that accentuated her dark eyes and hair against her pale face.   
  
Jil had been assigned to her from the collection of Jedi that had left the academy on Coruscant about a month earlier. She didn't know much about her, other than the fact that she was one of the most persuasive people she had ever known. She had a remarkable talent for taking nearly any objection or question and turning into a positive. She had a casual ease of conversation that made her seem incredibly trustworthy.   
  
She wasn't bad with a lightsaber either.   
  
"I'm just tired." Meetra admitted. "I'm stretched thin and I was just hoping to find a brief period of solitude to clear my head."   
  
"You've been up here for hours." Jil pointed out. "Come just for a little while. Play pazaak with me and Genna."   
  
"I'm terrible at that game." Meetra said in a dismissive way she hoped came across casually enough to end the discussion. She took a drink.   
  
"You just haven't learned how to play properly. Come on." She held out her hands to her and Meetra stared up at her from her chair, feeling more and more like a frightened animal being coaxed out of a hiding space. Something about this woman made her feel peculiar. Having never been particularly good at building friendships with women (besides Atris) to begin with finding them to be far too fair-weather and unpredictable, she generally kept most females at arm's length: As for as she was concerned, members of her own gender were unreliable at the best of times. Jil's mouth lifted at one side, her eyes twinkling to suit the smirk.   
  
It was like a punch in the gut, and Meetra couldn't say no, so she took Jil's hand and left the chair and the ruined mansion and joined the celebration outside.   
  
The night from that moment became a chronological haze; there were songs sung and stories told and drinking games played and without her even realizing it, her dulcet thoughts of Alek slipped away.   
  
At one point she found herself removed from the warm light of the fire, and standing in the cool blue light of the moon in the part of the garden that curved around the side of house. She was standing there looking at Jil and listening to the hoots and hollers of the not so distant party, and before she knew it she was kissing her, and then they were making love on the soft grass, and then… then she realized what she had done.   



	15. Chapter 15

"You'll be fine." Meetra said, kneeling on the floor and yanking up Atton's sleeve. Before he could say anything else, she clamped her mouth over the puncture wound on his forearm and sucked hard for a minute before turning her head and spitting out a mouthful of his blood.   
  
"That was disgusting and somehow erotic." He winced.   
  
"I'm not done yet, so shut up." She didn't waste a moment uncapping a syringe with her teeth and jamming the needle into his thigh, depressing the plunger with one swift movement. "I don't have anything sterile to wrap that with, so it'll have to wait till we get back to Khoonda."   
  
"What do I get for being such a good patient, nurse?" He smirked wolfishly down at her.   
  
"You get to live." She countered. "Laigrek venom works quickly and we didn't have time to fool around. Just don't get stung or bit again, I've had enough blood and poison in my mouth for one day, thanks."   
  
"Excuse me… I have some sterile dressings you're welcome to." Both Atton and Meetra looked around at the young blonde man who had been standing quietly in the same spot since Meetra had crashed through the door of this room, half supporting Atton's weight. He recalled the man offering assistance, but Meetra assured him she could handle it.   
  
Atton's eyes narrowed of their own accord; nobody in a place like this would just offer something as valuable as medical supplies just from the goodness of their own heart.   
  
"No thanks kid, I'll be fine."   
  
"That would be great, thanks." He and Meetra replied at exactly the same with two very different sentences. She shot him a dark look before standing and accepting the sterile packs from the man.   
  
"What are you doing in here, anyways?" She asked.   
  
"I am a historian under the employ of the Republic. I've been tasked to seek out any remnants of the Jedi Order."   
  
"And Dantooine seemed like a gangbuster idea?" She said, coming back to Atton and tearing the package of gauze open. "Sorry." She looked up at Atton apologetically when he hissed at the tightness she bound his wound with.   
  
"I heard rumours that there may be Jedi here. Unfortunately I haven't found any trace of them." Over Meetra's shoulder Atton could see the blonde man looking at her with a curious intent, like he was trying to place her face in some sort of memory. "In the mean time I have been collecting what historically relevant artefacts and writings I can find. Much was destroyed in the Sith bombardment of the planet, but it hasn't been an entirely fruitless endeavour."   
  
"A bit young to be a historian, aren't you?" Meetra observed, cleanly cutting the gauze with the sterile scissors included in the package.   
  
The man ran a hand somewhat nervously through his golden hair. "I have… I have certain skills and experience that the Republic thought to be useful to their ends."   
  
"I see." Was all Meetra said before standing and holding a hand out to Atton which he used to pull himself off the ground as well. "Well, thank you for the gauze. You seem like you've got a lot of reading to do, and we have business of our own, so I'll let you get back to it."   
  
Atton's brow furrowed; Meetra's way of speaking was unusually brisk and short. It was almost like she wanted to get away from this guy as fast as she could. As far as Atton could tell, he offered no other immediate threat… the kid was a complete dweeb. There was no way he would recognize Meetra to be a Jedi, for she was dressed like a skid from Coruscant and carried a blaster pistol. What was making her uncomfortable?   
  
"Wait!" The man called as they began moving towards the door. "Why are you here, in the academy? You don't look like salvagers…" His handsome face was raked with something that wasn't quite suspicion, but more like concern or curiousity.   
  
If there was one thing Atton hated, it was nosy people who didn't know how to stop asking questions. Already displeased with having to go into a Jedi academy (even a ruined one,) for the unpleasant feelings a place like this dragged up out of him, his patience was teetering on the edge of a very finely sharpened knife.   
  
"We wanted a vacation." He sneered, speaking before thinking. "But someone forgot to tell us that half of Dantooine had been flattened years ago. Bought the transport tickets months ago, and you know what a bitch it is to have those cancelled, don't you?" He wrapped his good hand around the top of Meetra's arm and started leading her away.   
  
"Stop it!" She said, her voice this time vacant of the flirtatious lilt that had filled it when she'd said those exact words to him only nights earlier. She yanked her arm away and turned back to survey the "historian."   
  
She took her time sizing him up, deeming if he was worthy of the truth, or a blaster bolt. Atton felt cold inside as he watched her do this; he'd seen Revan do the exact same thing, once or twice. It was an action so subtle and so simple; merely squarely standing in front of the victim and blankly looking them up and down as if taking in a piece of art in some sort of gallery. He knew for a fact that she wasn't just looking for give-aways on the surface; things like hunger in the eyes, or perspiration, excessive swallowing or fidgeting. She was taking a glimpse inside the poor bastard's mind too, trying to ferret out whether or not he was a threat.   
  
"I'm following the same lead you are." She said finally, and Atton felt his frown deepen. "I'm also seeking out what remains of the Jedi." She left it at that, and to Atton's relief, turned to go once more.   
  
"Perhaps I can help? As I said, I have experience that the Republic finds favourable… perhaps these skills can be useful to one such as yourself."   
  
As if having a cryptic old woman, a seriously mouthy utility droid, and a war-time tech that was suspiciously quiet wasn't bad enough, he would be damned if more oxygen was wasted on the ship by this over-glorified bookworm.   
  
"Yeah we don't need anyone else." The verbal incontinence began casually, "We've got enough baggage as it is, and honestly, we like to travel light." The words fell obnoxiously out of his mouth before he could stop them. It was one of those situations where words just fell willy-nilly out of the hole in his face without any thought to what the consequences may be. If he had been thinking, he would have remembered Meetra's short-lived furor the other night at his impulsive tendencies.   
  
Think! If he had that capacity, in that moment in his mind's eye to remember the look of cold, controlled impatience; partly mocking, partly fury...   
  
He was damn near pleased with himself initially; the blonde looked utterly taken aback and it made his handsome boyish features look juvenile and stupid, betraying his naivety for what it was.   
  
Then he felt her eyes on him.   
  
He didn't do her the favor of looking at her. She didn't need to say a word because he already knew what she was thinking.   
  
Next time, fracking think, Atton!   
  
"You'll have to forgive Atton," she said, remaining calm and composed in a way that made a deep and dark part of him hate her just a little bit. "He's had a difficult day. If you feel you can lend a hand, I suppose you're more than welcome to join us." Even through the anger simmering inside of him, he got the sense that despite her invitation, Meetra wasn't completely ecstatic about the arrangement for reasons he would be sure to ask her about later.   
  
He didn't know why he felt so threatened to begin with; this guy didn't seem all that different than the idiot at the club on Telos that struck out with Meetra simply by being a gentleman.   
  
He saw it himself.   
  
She wasn't into that sort of thing.   
  
Right?   



	16. Chapter 16

"They'll likely try and breach through the front and the garage doors." Meetra said, whirling the map around and zooming in on the two entrances. "What we're going to need is a unit of grenadiers and close quarter's marksmen at each of these weak points. The mercenaries are well armed, but have no real fire-power." She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. Ground strategy was something she had not touched in years, and the men she had were farmers and merchants, not battle-tested soldiers like she was used to leading. "I want the grenadiers flanking the combat points to the right and left, with the marksmen filling the middle. What we're going to do is give them the impression they only have to cut through a squad of guns, only to have the grenadiers hiding just out of the line of sight."   
  
"That leaves the entire front line unprotected from the start!" Master Vrook cut in, wasting no time voicing his displeasure at this strategy.   
  
"Not so." Meetra said calmly; having her strategies and battle plans questioned was something that went along hand-in-hand with being a general. "I intend to have a sniper stationed on the roof above each of the potential hot-spots to provide cover fire for the men below." She waved the blueprints of the front entrance away and zoomed in further on the garage before looking up and around at the truthfully disappointing amount of men at her disposal. "Your name?" She said, pointing at one of the more experienced looking militia members.   
  
"Dorian, ma'am."   
  
"Got any experience sniping?"   
  
"Used to blind-hunt Iriaz in the canyon with my pop, that's close enough isn't it?"   
  
"It's exactly what we need." Meetra treated the man with a smile. "You take the front entrance. Atton, I want you to handle the garage."   
  
He uncrossed his arms and stood up from the table he had leaning against. "What, from the roof?"   
  
"Correct."   
  
"Well what are you doing?"   
  
She looked at him from under her eyebrows, her lips pressed in a thin line, "I'm getting to that." She waved the map clean and pulled up the original blueprint that included the field surrounding the compound. "As I was saying, I want the entrances covered. It sounds like a dumb idea, but I want my snipers to command the more experienced soldiers from the two areas I already mentioned. If things go screwy, I want you both off the roof and on the ground, stat. I will command the greener members of the militia, and we will cut down as many mercenaries as we can as they come in through the narrow canyon passage from the plains. Zherron and Mical will accompany me." She looked at the pair of them. "You will command the light artillery, Mical. And Zherron, I want you looking after our heavy gunners. I will lead the melee unit: Swords and spears."   
  
"I will do as you command." Mical agreed, with a polite nod.   
  
"Begging your pardon," Zherron said, low in his throat, "But wouldn't it make more sense to have the less experienced foot-soldiers guarding the entrances as opposed to the location that is going to see the most resistance?"   
  
"No." Meetra said plainly. "A good soldier sees lots of action, and a good soldier doesn't become such without being placed in the thick of things every once and awhile. These newer recruits have likely never seen battle on this scale before and hopefully won't ever again: They will be nervous and scared. The less time they have to stand around thinking about it, the better. We've gotta just… throw 'em in." She finished and shrugged, hoping the militia captain got where she was coming from.   
  
"You haven't learned anything, have you?" Vrook chimed in bitterly. "Your appetite for blood clearly wasn't sated by the war, nor dulled by your exile. The cost of victory is so incredibly lost on you, isn't it?"   
  
Meetra inhaled peacefully and stood straight, clasping her hands behind her back, looking somewhat down her nose at the Jedi Master. She might have been a stupid, egotistical, cocky young woman when she left for the war, but no longer was she about to shy away from the difficult questions. No, she was going to be the one to ask them.   
  
"And from what experience do you speak, Master Vrook?" She asked quietly, coldly. "A comfortably upholstered armchair in the council chambers?" The room was thick with tension that could almost be cut into individual squares and handed out to be kept if anyone ever cared to look back on an immensely awkward occasion. "Like it or not, these mercenaries are going to be at our doorstep and they are going to want our blood to stain the grass. The people of Khoonda did not ask for this small war, nor do I support it. However, in the interests of these fine people, I can appreciate a threat for what it is, and I believe I can also help them stop it. If you disagree with my tactics, which may I remind you, have been wrought from authentic war-time experience, you are free to try and best me and my skills in this particularly bloody arena. If not, I would beg you to please just shut up and let me do my job."   
  
"Foolishness." Vrook grumbled. "All of it. This blood will cling to your hands, joining that which already stains them from what you spilled across the galaxy and Malachor."   
  
Meetra closed the map and smiled slightly. "Perhaps." She said softly. "But I appear to be alone as far as people present who have come to terms with that… debacle. We are here and now, Master Vrook… here and now." She looked up and around at the faces in the administrative room. "Anything else?"   
  
Silence met her, as the men stared back at her, all looking a bit shell-shocked. She sighed; she intended to speak with them all before the battle; getting to know the men who served you was an advantageous undertaking that many military leaders overlooked. Charisma could win a battle, and making yourself off limits and lofty as a leader caused doubt more often than not within the ranks.   
  
"Yeah." Atton said stepping forward. "Can't we put this guy on the roof instead?" He jerked a thumb towards Mical, who flinched a little. "I'm better on the ground anyway."   
  
She decided to humour Atton, despite the all-encompassing urge to give him a good smack. He would have been a terrible soldier, if he questioned things like this all the time.   
  
"Got any sniping experience, son?" She asked Mical with an encouraging smile.   
  
"Well I can't really say I have… but I'm fairly skilled with a pair of pistols… I could try though, if you thought it would be to our benefit…" He trailed off nervously, lamely, his soft cheeks reddening.   
  
"There we have it." Meetra said, looking back to Atton. "Mical will be with me on the front lines, and you will snipe from the roof."   
  
"That's Kath-crap. I won't do it."   
  
Meetra ground her teeth and pulled both hands through her hair in frustration, leaving her fringe to stick up a little madly. "Atton, we're standing in a room full of people who have a lot of work to do. I'm not having this argument right now. I think you're a gem of a human, and nothing would make me happier than having you on the front lines with me, but you're injured already, and I know you're good at shooting from a distance. Look around you, we're already spread thin enough, and where I really, really need you is on the roof, with a sniper rifle, ready to fracking do this. I'm sorry, but right now you're not my pilot. You're my soldier, and you'll go where I tell you to go."   
  
"No."   
  
" – If I tell you to guard the toilets, you'll do it –."   
  
"Nope."   
  
" – If I tell you to guard the potted plant next to the door, you'll do it - ."   
  
"I won't."   
  
" – If I tell you to throw yourself on a goddamn sonic detonator, you'll do it!"   
  
It was turning into her first mission as a captain all over again. Her entire platoon had essentially told her where to go with her commands and orders and decided to just run headlong into the battle. She'd spent just as much time yelling at them to listen to her as she had identifying the body parts that remained afterwards.   
  
She rounded the table and instead of grabbing him by the collar of his jacket and giving him a good shake like she really wanted to, she gritted her teeth and said, low in her throat, "I'll make it up to you. Just. Do. It."   
  
They glared at each other for a moment, not unaware of the entire room full of people who were awkwardly trying to go about other business. His eyes burned into hers, and hers into his, neither willing to back down. Her eyes drifted to the shape of his mouth, pressed into a frown and she wanted nothing more than to press her lips to his. Feel their smoothness and texture and defiance…   
  
"Alright." He said quietly enough so that only she could hear it. "But keep your comm. on. If things get weird, I'm abandoning your 'strategy,' and the roof."   
  
"Naturally." She said breezily, swallowing her heart. "Wouldn't have it any other way."   
  



	17. Chapter 17

Sweat rushed down her face from her temples. She heard the sound of mines and grenades going off; violent sounds that punctured the evening air. As she predicted, the mercenaries chose to attack at dusk, while the sun was against herself and the Khoonda militia, blinding them and giving them the disadvantage. The battle was not going well on her front, and even she was beginning to feel fatigued.   
  
"Back!" She screamed at her light arms-men as she brought the hilt of her sword deftly across the jaw of a mercenary, acknowledging the crack as he stumbled backwards and was run through by the blade of another soldier. She didn't waste a moment turning to her next batch of opponents as they poured out of the narrow canyon, into the scuffle. Cold steel kissed as she met the offence of the next mercenary that caught her eye. They grappled briefly, each struggling for power over the other as sparks flew between the metal in their hands. She seized the weakness that had presented itself; this particular opponent kept his guard too wide, leaving his elbows too far away from his vital core as they pushed against each other. With a vast exhalation of breath she reached her left hand under and across to his right wrist; the one that held a vibroblade, and with one concrete movement, bowed his sword arm over his head, twisting him to the ground before sliding her own blade neatly through his heart.   
  
"Mical!" She bellowed. "Pull back! Group your men at the front of the comp – ." She hissed and inwardly rebuked herself for losing her focus as she reeled to the ground from the gloved fist that met her face. Hot fury roared through her, pounded in her ears as she rolled onto her back and dragged her blade up from the earth just in time to block the surely lethal blow that was aimed right for her forehead. She leveraged the momentum of the fool who dared to strike her and drove her foot into her attacker's chest, shoving him back far enough for her to use the valuable time to scramble to her feet. Blood poured down her face but she had no time to relieve herself of the unpleasant sensation. She parried another blow, taking the time to place this attacker's weakness. He swung heavy and clumsily, treating the blade he wielded as if it a Gamorrean war-axe rather than the delicate instrument of death it could have been in the right hands.   
  
Her hands.   
  
She ducked, narrowly missing another death-blow, crossing her leg behind her as she evaded each attack, bobbing down and feigning where applicable. Finally, she caught her breath, felt her movements become fluid and pre-meditated through the Force as she cut through his defences patiently at first, parrying and blocking his crude savagery with lightness and ease. She batted his blade away like it was a feather caught in a breeze before launching her own counter which was slick and speedy, over-powering him with an intricacy and controlled savagery that he could not feasibly overcome. She met his eyes and knew that the last thing he ever saw was her radiantly blue ones, wide and laid on the backdrop of red that coated her face.   
  
Men fell around her. Her men: They were failing at holding the mercenaries back, and blood soaked into the slick grass under her feet.   
  
"Update!" She panted into her comm. as she gutted her next opponent. She needed to know how many enemies had slid past her counter-attack and reached Atton and Dorian.   
  
"Taking heavy fire." Dorian responded first, breathless and tired. "But the front is holding strong still."   
  
"Atton?" She snarled into the comm. "Atton?!"   
  
"Just you know… doing stuff, and things."   
  
"If you're not on that roof, doing what I told you to do… I swear…"   
  
"Cool your jets, sweet thing. I've got it."   
  
"You're not on the roof, are you?"   
  
Static crackled through the comm. before he finally answered.   
  
"No. But trust me, I'm doing something way better."   
  
She withdrew her blaster pistol and shot a man in the face before daring to glance over her shoulder towards the compound. A laugh was driven out of her heaving belly when she saw a number of war-droids file out of the garage. They had been broken and she didn't possess the skill to mend them before the battle had started.   
  
"Carry on." She relented, dodging some blaster fire and driving her knee into the gut of another mercenary before cleanly decapitating him.   
  
"Help…" Someone was pulling at the hem of her pants. She spared the moment to glance down, allowing the Force to this time keep her aware of her surroundings. "H-help…"   
  
Her breath fell from her lungs as she glanced down at the wounded militia member, curled on his belly in the grass. His left leg was nothing more than a splintered and bloody spike, flesh still hung and smoked in strings from his knee.   
  
"Dammit…" She breathed, settling to the ground next to the soldier, her frenzied breaths blasting his hair away from his face. She deflected fire as she did this. She swore, over and over as she tried to drag the soldier to an upright position. No expletive seemed to fit the emotion that welled within her as she struggled to right the grievously injured man. "It's okay." She soothed. "I'm not going to leave you. Let's just - ." She cried out and faltered when a blaster bolt seared hot through her left shoulder; a near miss, but not damning in the panic. "Get up." She growled. "Just… don't stop breathing." More blaster fire blazed past them, singeing her hair as she struggled to throw the man's arm over her shoulder: If she could just get him inside the compound…   
  
"STOP IT!" She bellowed, rounding on the canyon opening, still supporting the troop with one arm. The Force roared though her entire being in a way it had not done in too long; toes to head, unbridled and unbound… it was at her disposal: Her willing and obedient servant, or maybe it was the other way around, but now was not the time to think philosophically.   
  
With her shriek, men fell at her feet, their hands clasped to their ears crying out in torment at the damage her voice had wrought in its pain and desperation. Her flaming eyes met Zherron's and there was no need for her to speak her next order; he merely nodded and she fled into the twilight across the golden field as quickly as her feet would carry her.   
  
"Medic! Doctor! Vet! Any will do!" She barked as she half dragged the young man through the building, not ignorant to her bloodstained foot-steps. She wrested his weight onto the surgical table in the medical facility and set about checking his vitals while she waited. His pulse was nearly undetectable, slow and faint. His pale eyes fluttered open and shut and his face was glistening with death-sweat.   
  
"Please…" He choked, blood dribbling out of the corner of his mouth. "Please…"   
  
She pressed her teeth together so hard it hurt her head. She brushed soaking wet hair off of the man's head. "What's your name?" She asked gently.   
  
"Del…" He groaned. "'S… D-del…"   
  
"Thank you." She said, quietly. "Thank you, Del." She shushed him quietly and continued to stroke his forehead with her blood-stained thumb. Doctor… medic… vet. This man had lost too much blood… he was not long for this world. "Thank you."   
  
She huddled his head against her chest and let him go, not releasing her embrace until she felt his fingers, bloody and knitted in her own, go limp and dead. She released him and gazed down at his still chest, and then his face before closing his eyes and kissing him softly on the forehead. She covered him with a sheet, as she had covered so many before him, and took a deep breath, feeling her nostrils flare as she did so.   
  
Every muscle in her jaw and neck was clenched taut as she forced herself to the door and into the hallway.   
  
Guns pointed at her from every direction. Panic set in briefly as her mind wheeled, trying to place where Dorian and Atton were. Azkul stood front and center, just as greasy and bloodslicked as she was.   
  
"Last chance, Jedi." He said, lifting his own gun. "Surrender now."   
  
A smirk; dark, primal and savage pulled at the worn muscles of her face. Her lips curled back as a hound's hackles would rise at the scent of an enemy, and her eyebrows came together, dark and deeply. She felt her muscles trembling with coiled energy, and she felt the Force whirl around her, a veritable cyclone of movement and power… her obedient servant.   
  
She offered no verbal counter, instead she pushed herself out through the energy that tingled to her very fingertips and swept her hand to her right and then to her left, crushing Azkul's men mercilessly against the walls where she held them as a cat would hold a mouse's tail within its claws.   
  
Revan had taught her the value of ferocity in battle. She feared his teachings initially, being reluctant and nervous about how deeply her friend dared to delve into the mysteries Force, and the power that could be achieved and controlled. The most important lesson he had ever taught her was to waste no time with bantering useless and meaningless words with an enemy: When the opportunity presented itself, it was imperative that one must put aside all matters of ego and simply cut.   
  
Cut.   
  
She lifted a hand, and Azkul's feet left the ground, his bloody fingers grasping at his throat as she stepped closer to him. His eyes bulged, and she could see the whites of his irises broadly contrasted as he struggled and panicked against her invisible companion.   
  
Swiftly and silently she drew the blade of her sword across the soft skin of his throat as hung suspended and powerless with his men. She had no words to give this man.   
  
Cut.   
  
His life-blood showered her and he slumped to the ground. She let her grasp of the remaining men go, and she looked each and every one in the face with her blackened and bruised eyes as they recovered. Dare you? She challenged mentally, already knowing the answer.   
  
They fled with heavy footfalls, and she finally breathed out before lifting her line of sight over Azkul's bloody corpse.   
  
There he was: At the end of the hall, still holding a rifle in one hand as he stared at her, mouth hanging open in either fear or admiration.   
  
She couldn't tell.   
  
If I had to do it over, I just would have done it slower.   



	18. Chapter 18

She opened her eyes and the world spun blurrily around her the way it did in low-budget horror-vids.   
  
"Saw that coming." She rasped, laughing dryly as she tested the tension of the bounds that held her wrists tight to some sort of pipe behind her back. "Scared?" She lifted her dark eyes to the matching set that watched her stir to life again. "You know, some people would call me an idiot…" she said in a cock-sure way that she knew made him furious.   
  
"Shut up, Jil."   
  
"No, you shut up, Jaq!" She snapped, her identical eyebrows pressed into an identical glare. "Look at you. When was the last time you ate a proper meal?"   
  
"Why are you here?" His voice came from the darkness, ragged and tired. "Why did you come looking for me?" The sloshing sound of liquor leaving the bottle issued into the blackness.   
  
"I have a lot to think about…" She admitted, settling into her bonds. "You'll notice something funny if you hang around here for too long." She warned. Her neck still ached painfully from where the needle had been violently stabbed into the muscle; she stretched it from side to side. "How much spice have you had tonight, dear brother? How much will it take for you to do what you need to do? Can you?" She knew all the right questions to ask; she was good at it to begin with, but her own twin presented her with a simplicity that was not found in most.   
  
Silence hung in the filthy shipping container.   
  
"I have a husband, Jaq. I left the war. I deserted because I couldn't stand to follow the orders of a mad-woman. I left it all behind so that we could be free and happy…"   
  
"Your so full of it your eyes are brown, Jil."   
  
"I'm not trying to change your mind, you complete idiot." She hissed.   
  
There was an echoing clatter as Jaq kicked over a pallet of empty crates, and Jil jumped.   
  
"Why?" He shouted, snatching her by the collar and dragging her face to his. "Why did you come to the cantina? Why did you talk to me?! Why did you pull down your hood and show me your face?!"   
  
She chewed at the inside of her mouth and didn't blink as he breathed deep, violent breaths.   
  
"Because you don't have to do this anymore: Just like I chose not to do it either. You were going to find me anyway…" She let her chin fall to her shoulder as her mind squirmed away from thoughts of Andromeda. Don't cry… "That's why you're here, on Telos… right?"   
  
"Why… why did it have to be you?"   
  
"The Force is a mysterious entity, Jaq." She said with more calmness than she thought possible: She only smirked at the backhand she received and spat out some blood. "I'm not so easily fooled, brother. We were knit in the same womb, at the same time. You can try to wash it out, but as they saying goes; 'the blood is thicker.'"   
  
"You. Everything about you sickens me." He promised.   
  
"Does it?" She remarked, partly urged on by the drugs that still blazed through her system. She always had been rather impulsive anyway… "Well take a damn good look, Jaq. Because everything that you decide to do to me, you're only inviting back on yourself in the long run."   
  
"Then why are you here?!" He demanded, slamming her so hard against the wall that it drove the air from her lungs and caused her ribs to crack.   
  
She coughed up a bit of blood and laughed, searching the face of her twin.   
  
"Would you believe, because I love you?"   
  
She turned her head placidly in the direction it was slapped again, recovering with nothing but patience and grace.   
  
"Trust me; it's not an enviable lot." She cracked. "Some things… some things are worth giving up, though. I'm half Jil… and half Jaq."   
  
"Stop it, Jil." He warned, wrapping one strong yet trembling hand around her throat, pushing his thumb into her vocal cords.   
  
"The two halves are equal… just a cross between two evils." Her dark eyes came up to meet his once more and all she felt was uncontrollable love and pity for him: It burned as hot as a star and as strong and paced as the tide on Manaan: She wouldn't let her death be fruitless and in vain. It was the very reason she had left Dallon and Andromeda to begin with. She weakened and a strangled sob left her throat. "But if you listen… you'll learn to hear the difference…"   
  
Jaq's hand left her throat and she gasped greedily for air as he paced angrily. She reached out with the Force and was met with nothing but blood-lust and hatred, her own feeble strength bouncing weakly off of the boundaries her brother had created. Perhaps if she could be brave enough, she'd find a clever way to kick him out… scare him away.   
  
She faltered only momentarily in her resolve before she sharply inhaled and forced a normal breathing pattern once again: She could run as fast as she could run, but by this time, Jaq would come tumbling after: Just like that stupid nursery rhyme.   
  
She wasn't going to live through the night.   
  
Might as well come to terms with it.   
  
Make peace with it.   
  
Cling to memories of Dallon and Andi… even Meetra.   
  
"I'm not big enough to house this crowd." She said quietly, looking up at her twin through tear-filled eyes, as she saw the steely glint of the knife in his hand.   
  
"You know what?" He whispered right next to her ear. "I'm so high that not even you and all of your love could bring me down."   
  
She exhaled into his own ear, deeply, thoroughly, bravely as she opened herself to the Force and allowed it to flow through her and smash through her twin brother's being like an ancient stone through brittle glass.   
  
It might destroy me, but I'd sacrifice my body… if it meant I'd get the Jaq part out…   
  
She didn't even flinch when the cold blade slid into the most vital part of her body.   
  
"Run, Jaq. Run."   
  
She took her last breath knowing that he would never be the same.   



	19. Chapter 19

A day passed, and a night.   
  
Then another day, and another night… she slept the entire time, huddled under the blankets in her bunk, banishing the Sith Miraluka she had to beat into submission into the med-bay, if only to have her own space. She didn't care for the blind one's mysteries right now. For now, she just wanted to sleep. Rest: Be removed. Not care, not see, not talk, not lead, nor explain herself.   
  
Sleep.   
  
"What?" She snapped rather harshly at the gentle knock, warning her that someone was about to encroach on her space. It was too late for her to take back her words; Kreia never would have bothered to seek her out, preferring Meetra to come find her, and Atton wasn't nearly graced enough in social skills to announce his presence so delicately.   
  
"I thought you could use something to eat." Came the gentle voice of the man she learned to be called 'Mical.'   
  
"Did you?" She replied from under the blankets, fleece brushing against her lips. "Not hungry, go away."   
  
"I already made the food." He laughed patiently. Quiet footsteps approached her and she clutched the covers tighter around herself. "You need to eat something."   
  
"I don't need to do anything." She breathed through the stuffy blanket-air. "I'll eat when I'm hungry."   
  
"You've hidden yourself away in here since the battle." Mical said with a confidence she had not heard in his voice before. "Being a hermit never solved anyone's problems."   
  
"Problems?" She repeated, revealing her glare from under the blanket. "Ever heard of Jolee Bindo, kid? He turned hermit-ism into an art form. I'm sweaty and smelly: Go away." It was a feeble excuse and she knew it.   
  
Force, who was she? What was she doing, cowering under a sheet of fleece, rather than blasting off of this rock onto the next big thing? Idiot. Coward. Lazy bloody vixen.   
  
"Tell your stupid Republic they can deal with the Sith on their own." She said, veiling her face once again. "I'm done with war." She rolled onto her side, closing the matter.   
  
"Do you really get to choose?" Mical asked her, setting the tray of lunch he had brought her on the cold floor. "You have a gift, and a talent for leading people that is unheard of. Just because you're good at it, doesn't mean you have to like it."   
  
"Why couldn't I have been good at something… plain? Like numbers or book-keeping. I'm sick of slaughtering people because I'm 'better at it than most.' I'm tired of looking into people's eyes while they die."   
  
"All talents pose their difficulties." Mical said gently. "People who are talented at numbers often find their life-times unsatisfactory, sitting at a desk, entering figures into a computer while someone demands to know of their progress. Book-keepers bear a heavy burden in that they must always be alert and organized… a single mistake often means their head in the job market."   
  
"I'd take it." Meetra said defiantly. No further resistance met her as she heard Mical leave as quietly as he'd entered. She waited a few more minutes before finally removing herself from her chrysalis of self-loathing to indulge in a few tiny bites of the sandwich he had made for her: Her stomach turned at each nibble, and she was unable to create the saliva needed to dampen the food in her mouth, turning each swallow into a grating and unpleasant experience. But Mical was right; she needed to remain strong physically, if she wasn't able to do so mentally.   
  
Withering, she placed the sandwich back on the tray and slid it under the bunk with her foot, dragging her hands over her face and knotting her fingers into her hair, wrinkling her nose when she caught a whiff of herself: She hadn't lied when she said she was sweaty and smelly.   
  
"Get up, you idiot." She muttered to herself, forcing herself to her feet and across the room where she dug around in a footlocker until she found a clean looking towel. She threw the scrap of fabric over her shoulder and sloped barefoot down the hallway, eyes turned down, oblivious and uncaring to any and all who may see her in such a state: Hair un-brushed and greasy; whatever wasn't hanging in greasy curtains by her face was matted and defying gravity.   
  
"Yikes. You look how I feel."   
  
Her brows pressed down as she passed the kitchen and didn't even look Atton's way: She was still irritated with him after everything that had happened at Khoonda, and now was not the time to discuss it.   
  
She slid the door shut behind her and began stripping away the underthings she had been wearing since the battle. She sharply breathed in when she peeled the fibres of her tank top away from the blaster-wound on her left shoulder, making a mental note to finally have Mical disinfect and patch up the oozing burn when she was clean. She held her hands in front of her face as she stood naked in the small, cold room, taking in the sight of all the dried blood that clung under her fingernails and in the cracks and valleys of the skin on her hands.   
  
There was a tell-tale lurch in her gut and, she fell to her knees and wretched into the toilet, what little food she had eaten vacating her stomach along with a considerable amount of bile. Her coughing echoed off of the durasteel walls and wasn't completely hidden by the sound of the rush of hot steamy water issuing from the shower.   
  
"Sith take me…" she groaned, wiping her mouth with the back of her arm before wobbling into the shower and collapsing against the wall, sliding down until she sat on the hard floor, allowing the scalding water to beat against her mercilessly, letting it have its way with her.   
  
She hadn't forgotten looking up into the eyes of Azkul as she neatly split his throat open, nor had she forgotten looking into the eyes of Del as he breathed his last agonized breath, nor had she forgotten seeing Azkul fall into a bloody heap, and the hungry look in the eyes of her pilot from across the hallway. Hunger that she couldn't place or define; hunger for her, or for blood… both? It chilled her to the core and between the three snatches of memory, that particular one seemed to be the most damned resilient to any attempt by herself to sweep it away.   
  
Cold hate seemed to tunnel down the hallway between the pair of them, and she wasn't sure she cared to delve deeper into why. She just knew that she felt the most blank form of remorse she'd ever felt: So many had come to such sticky ends by her hands… so many lives unravelled and torn asunder.   
  
Simply put, she just wasn't interested in doing it anymore.   
  
Her own bloodlust and megalomania had caused her to make such foolish decisions in the past… lash out at those she cared the most deeply for: It affected them. People like Alek and Jil stood out the strongest, but perhaps that was for the things left unsaid and the wrongs never made right: Alek was long dead now, and Jil… she had no idea where to even begin searching for her. Perhaps the Force would guide them together again; she was looking for Jedi after all… but if Jil had heeded her words and went as far underground as underground could be, well… she had a snowball's chance to find her if she had survived this long.   
  
She blinked and rubbed water out of her eyes as a realization smacked her without mercy; what would Jil say? Or even Alek, for that matter? Huddled in a sad heap, trying to drown herself in the downwards flow of water, picking apart her very essence like a distracted child would tear apart a blade of grass with clumsy young fingers…   
  
"Great, so you know why you feel like this. What are you going to do to change it?" Jil would say.   
  
"You're better than this." Alek would rib, "What, are you gonna start ordering girl-drinks next?"   
  
And Revan.   
  
Revan had precious little tolerance for self-pity and hand-holding. She could nearly feel his calculating, emotionless eyes on her and hear his voice in her head, nothing more than a memory, but a strong one all the same: "I like to wake up each morning and not know what I think, that I may reinvent myself in some way."   
  
Jarring words that made her feel uncomfortable and young and stupid at the time, made her feel cautiously optimistic now.   
  
You know the problem. You're better than this. How will you reinvent yourself?   
  
She picked herself up off the shower floor and set about washing the blood out of her hair.   
  
.o.O.o.   
  
She wandered directionless in the soft grass, eyes purposely unfocused as she crossed the plains and went over the hills, feeling the warm earth between the toes of her bare feet. She wandered towards the sun for a little while, and then away from it, and then in the direction the wind was blowing, and finally against it.   
  
She wasn't going anywhere. She wasn't searching for anything in particular… she was just seeing, feeling, smelling, hearing.   
  
She was unarmed, carrying nothing with her but a blba branch she had found near a grove of trees. She wore only leggings and a tunic, opting for silence, she had chosen to leave unannounced and leave her comlink in the cockpit of the ship.   
  
This sort of solitude was certainly preferable to the kind she had opted for previously.   
  
This was peace, and freedom and silence. This was the movement of the universe around her, and all of the gentle tugs of the Force that went with it.   
  
This was infinitely preferable to the deafening scream that had torn from her lips in the field at Khoonda.   
  
It was infinitely more redeeming to her soul than crushing a man's throat with her mind.   
  
It was immeasurably more empowering than incapacitating a dozen men at once, with only the wave of her hand.   
  
Out here, she was everything. Everything was her.   
  
Here, in the middle of an endless golden field, everything seemed manageable and clear.   
  
"Meetra!" A distant voice echoed off of the hills around her and she turned in the direction it had originated; she could just barely make out Mical sprinting across the grass, down the valley towards her, a med-kit rattling around in his hand.   
  
She slowed her pace and allowed him to catch up with her, smiling slightly as he fell into step with her, breathing heavily.   
  
"How did you get so far away?" He panted.   
  
"I don't know." She said. "I just ended up here."   
  
"I noticed you were gone, and… and you really shouldn't be putting yourself further in harm's way before I can mend your shoulder."   
  
"Harm's way is very objective." She shot back playfully. "I've got my blba staff." She jabbed the air around them a couple of times with the limb, and offered him a proper smile. "But thank you. I was meaning to seek you out for that when I returned."   
  
"Well, they do say there's no time like the present." Mical said, opening the med-kit.   
  
"Alright." Meetra relented. "But I'm not done my walk." She stopped walking and sat cross-legged where she stood, Mical followed suit.   
  
"I never said you had to be." He said; Meetra couldn't help but smile again. There was something quite calming about the way he spoke. Each word that came from his mouth was deliberate and weighted with intention, each intonation and syllable landing neatly where it should.   
  
"Ouch!" She hissed as he gently pulled the shoulder of her tunic down and to one side.   
  
"Sorry." He said. "If you had this taken care of when it had happened, we wouldn't be seeing so much discharge. It actually looks a little infected." He dabbed gently at the angry burn with a disinfectant pad.   
  
"Honestly, it wasn't a priority at the time."   
  
"And hiding in the bunks was?" He laughed; easy and light.   
  
"I feel better now." She admitted.   
  
"How was the sandwich?" He asked, plunging a dose of antibiotics into the raised skin on her shoulder.   
  
Meetra groaned before answering. "It was great, for the five minutes it sat in my belly."   
  
"You've been ill lately?" He asked conversationally, flicking a syringe of kolto before ensuring there was no air in the needle.   
  
"Ever since the Force came back to me… I've experienced extended periods of severe discomfort, let's put it that way." She flinched again when the kolto needle breached her skin.   
  
"Interesting…" Mical said, almost under his breath as he pulled the needle out.   
  
"What?"   
  
"Stripping a user of the Force of their connection is a punishment that has been used only a handful of times in recorded history. Never have I heard of something similar happening but with the Force returning after the event. I can only imagine the effects to be… unpleasant at the least."   
  
Meetra closed her eyes at the feeling of his hand on her shoulder, massaging what she assumed was some sort of anti-bacterial salve into it.   
  
"Could you describe the symptoms you've experienced?"   
  
"Migraines, and nausea that were almost constant for the first few weeks, though they've edged off considerably now. Also, aches and pains all through my body. Insomnia, vivid dreams when I do get to sleep, short temper… there's just constantly… noise and feelings." She finished.   
  
"How have you coped with them so far?" Gentle, practiced fingers pressed a square of sterile bandaging over the cleaned wound.   
  
She looked over her shoulder slyly at him when he finished. "Wouldn't you like to know?"   
  
His cheeks reddened slightly and his eyes pulled away from hers. "Well, yes. Actually that's why I asked… perhaps knowing how you've treated your symptoms thus far, will help us to find a more suitable therapy, tailored to the precise issue."   
  
Like Jil, Mical had an incredibly trustworthy energy around him. He exuded a sense of calm, controlled curiousity and a peaceful manner that was utterly placating: Like he didn't have it in him say an impatient or cruel word to her, or anyone else. She thought it interesting to see such traits in someone so young…   
  
"Depressants." She said plainly, like he had just asked her the time of day.   
  
"Depressants?" He repeated as she swung her legs around under her and faced him, still seated on the grass.   
  
"Alcohol, pain-killers… night-time cold medicine. Whatever works, so long as it slows my mind down."   
  
"I see…" Mical said, his eyes wandering to places over the horizon as he thought. "And how well has that been working out for you?" He asked suddenly, his eyes snapping back to her with rapt attention.   
  
"Like I said, it's better than it was." She said, burying her fingers in the blades of grass beneath her. "Things only get really uncomfortable now when I'm upset, or under considerable stress. And who wouldn't want a drink after that?"   
  
"Like right after the battle?"   
  
"Yeah." She said quietly, suddenly arching her brow. "Do I know you? You look familiar."   
  
His cheeks reddened further and she knew he was lying. "No." He said quickly, shaking his head from side to side. "I don't think we've ever met."   
  
She narrowed her eyes and smirked at him down the bridge of her nose. "If you say so."   
  
Mical cleared his throat and distractedly tugged at some grass. "About your symptoms…. Have you considered that perhaps the trick to finally coming to peace with the unity of your mind and the Force is not by dulling the sensation with depressants, but rather heightening it with stimulation?"   
  
Meetra's eyebrow rose even higher with incredulity. "If this is a veiled and clumsy attempt to seduce me, think twice, space boy."   
  
She hadn't thought it possible, but Mical's cheeks and ears now resembled a shade of red so deep that she wondered if it would ever reside fully.   
  
"That's… that's not what I meant at all." He clarified. "I meant stimulating substances as opposed to depressing ones. From what I heard, I think that the problem is not in you being over-whelmed by the Force, instead I believe you are simply incredibly out of sync with it: A stringed instrument left sitting in a room for years and years will inevitably sound terrible when it is finally picked up and played again. It won't get better by just throwing a tarp over it and ignoring it further; only after time is taken to carefully re-calibrate the strings, will it create harmonious sound again."   
  
"Cute metaphor, Mical, but I'm not a stringed instrument. I'm a human. How do you propose stimulation to be the solution to my problem?"   
  
"Well… when was the last time you tried meditating?"   
  
"I was meditating all day until you came gunning across the fields at me." She replied, pulling the shoulder of her tunic up once more. "Or hadn't you noticed? Dazed expression? Meandering, aimless path through the grass? I was never very good at the cross-legged dream-walking in a quiet room stuff."   
  
"I think you should try it." Mical offered. "But you ought to approach it differently. No alcohol, no depressants. Cleanse your system with only water for at least a day… and then…"   
  
"Then?" She prompted, surprised at the mischief in his youthful blue eyes.   
  
"Then I want you to drink an entire pot of coffee, and attempt to meditate properly."   
  
If it had been anyone else, she would have dismissed the idea as a practical joke, an attempt to make her look stupid, or sheer lunacy altogether: Get wired and meditate. For some reason, coming from this sagely young man, it seemed like at the very least, it couldn't hurt to try,.   
  
"If the goal is to make me have to pee…"   
  
"You'll be fine." Mical assured her. "I meditate from time to time, actually. I find it greatly helps. I'll leave the decision up to you, but I would be more than happy to keep you company when you attempt this."   
  
"May I ask, what is the coffee leading up to? I already go through at least five cups per day, I doubt an entire pot will have much effect."   
  
"Small steps, Meetra, will get you across the galaxy." He said, smiling again in that benignly mischievous way.   
  
"How old are you?" She asked jokingly, feeling lighter than she had in days. He only laughed, flashing his perfectly straight teeth as he ran a hand through his hair and she couldn't help but join in too.   
  
Their laughter rolled across the hills, whispering through the grass, and amplified by the warm wind, fell on the ears of a pilot, leaning against the hull of a ship, smoking a cigarra.


	20. Chapter 20

"Pazaak?" She asked, making her presence known before Atton could call her on it.   
  
"Yeah. Why not?" He said, not turning around. She took a seat in the co-pilot's chair and pulled out her cards. There wasn't much else to do during the seemingly endless travel through hyperspace; the white lines zooming past the windows of the cockpit were exciting and created a rush, the first few times one travelled this way, but after so many years of space travel, they were merely another fixture, along with the hum of the hyperdrive and the ghostly blue glow emanating from the console screens all around her.   
  
They spoke little at first, drawing and laying down cards in silence, calculating totals without speaking, and barely acknowledging wins or losses.   
  
Meetra was the first to break the silence when Atton busted with a +10 on top of sixteen.   
  
"I won on an eleven. Don't think that's ever happened before." She smiled, deliberately side-stepping Atton's noticeably sulky demeanor as she swept cards into her fingers and began a new round.   
  
"It was a fluke." He remarked, tossing down a card: +2, for nineteen. "Stand."   
  
She pursed her lips; this was an uncharacteristically cautious play for her dulcet companion. Even at his most hung-over and hungry, Atton Rand would rarely stand on a nineteen, preferring to take his chances at pulling a negative or a plus-minus card on the next turn. Most would call it reckless, but somehow, more often than not, he made this dicey and aggressive playing style work in his favour.   
  
"Twenty four, and -4 makes twenty." She said, gathering cards up in her hands. "Hmmm… methinks the man's head is not entirely in the game right now." She looked shrewdly at Atton, waiting for an answer, when the only one that came was his gloved hand reaching under the console to grab a half-empty bottle of whiskey, she sighed her annoyance.   
  
He looked up at her, misinterpreting her vocalization as thirst. "I was gonna share." He assured her, though he didn't smile as he said it.   
  
"I don't want any whiskey." She said stubbornly. "I can't have any whiskey."   
  
"Good luck with that, doll." He laughed derisively and threw back a swig. Meetra wasn't an idiot; she could tell the difference between a swig to party, and a swig to cover something up. "Why the change of heart?"   
  
She felt her ears redden as she thought of the most sensitive way to breach the subject. "I'm trying something new. I need to give the drink a break is all." She forced a dismissive, casual quality into her words.   
  
"Yeah? Did blondie put you up to it?"   
  
She forced her eyes forward and relaxed her muscles, masking her shock at the hostility in Atton's voice. Even at the best of times he was terrible at the subtleties of tone and emphasis on certain words, seeming to come across way more hostile than she was sure he intended to. She didn't mind. She possessed a similar habit, having a rather unpleasant tendency to repeat herself quite firmly and loudly if someone didn't hear her speak the first time. But right now there was no doubt in her mind that he fully intended the sarcastic venom that hung from each syllable.   
  
"You think so?" She chose her words carefully, leaving herself room to squirm away from the conversation should it go to a place she wanted no part of. She played with the slightly bent edge of one of the cards in her hand.   
  
"I think it's lazy to answer a question with another question."   
  
"It's the only way I know how to answer ridiculous questions." She replied coolly, once again initiating a new round, her eyes not leaving Atton as he took another drink. "What do you have against him, anyway?"   
  
"Poindexter in the med-bay? I don't trust him."   
  
"Trust him?" Meetra said incredulously. "I don't think he's the sort for betrayal."   
  
"Then he's obviously taken you in."   
  
Meetra rolled her eyes when Atton finally won a round. "Please." She said. "As far as I can tell, he's an open book. Unlike some people around here."   
  
"Oh is that it then?" He said quietly, "We should all just lay ourselves open and honest before the great Meetra Surik?"   
  
"If this is about my orders at Khoonda – "   
  
She was cut off by the sound of the glass bottle slamming onto the console between them: There was no going back now and she knew it. This conversation had been looming like a storm-cloud since Mical had joined them.   
  
"Oooh… scary pilot is angry." She taunted softly, not backing down: Like many men before, Atton was about to learn that smashing things and making loud noises would not cow her like it did most. "Did I wound your masculine feelings when I ordered you in good faith to do an important task that I would have trusted to no one else? Don't be shy; tell it like it is."   
  
Meetra had a dirty secret, and her dirty secret was that she thoroughly enjoyed a proper argument and the intersection of two differing points of view that inevitably lead to everything that needed to be on the table being rather forcefully placed there. To her, words were barbed needles delivered with surgical precision and deft hands to the most delicate pressure points where they dug in and stung and burned and hurt even more until the pain of ego became unbearable and she was given the answers she was looking for.   
  
It was dark and she knew it.   
  
But she was good at it.   
  
"He follows you around like a pet. How did you manage to separate him from you long enough to sneak in here?" He asked darkly, fingers tapping against the neck of the bottle.   
  
"I told him I wanted some time alone, and guess what? Something crazy happened: He listened to me." Meetra said, deliberate irony hanging from her words.   
  
"You sure as hell didn't tell him that yesterday when he went chasing after you. Never mind the fact that when you finally surfaced after days under a blanket, you didn't have two words for me: You had all the time in the world to have a damn picnic with the kid though."   
  
Her eyes narrowed though a tight, mirthless smile spread across her face. "You stalkin' me now, Rand? Keepin' tabs on me?"   
  
"Pretty hard to ignore your harsh cackle coming over the hills. Sounded like a riot. By the way, I win again."   
  
Meetra made a face and switched around some of the cards in her side deck. Atton was good at this game: Despite his initial outburst, he wasn't giving away much, and he was staying quite under control on the surface. She didn't have to try to breach his mind to feel the hot, dry jealousy that was emanating from him like heat from a rock left out in the sun.   
  
Part of her was flattered. Another part was annoyed. There was another small part of her that was utterly disgusted at the implication that it even mattered.   
  
She leaned forward and placed another card.   
  
"Are you jealous, Atton?" She whispered, her eyes twinkling with something that may have been part curiosity and part disdain.   
  
He snorted, and a crooked smile split his face, though it was cold and unfriendly. "No."   
  
Meetra daringly carried on, "Because to be jealous, would imply that you desire to possess me in some way or another."   
  
"I need you like a whore needs crabs."   
  
"Funny, I had the exact same thought about you not too long ago." She said, losing another hand and tossing her remaining cards on the pile that covered the console. "Look," she began, leaning back into her chair. "If you have something to say, just say it. I'm tired of playing pazaak with someone who sulks the entire time."   
  
He studied her for a moment, and she didn't blink or look away.   
  
"Alright." He finally said, "You're crazy."   
  
When he didn't elaborate further, she finally spoke.   
  
"Crazy?" She prompted.   
  
"Yeah. Crazy. Insane. Unbalanced. Mental. Touched. Un-hinged. Want more? I've got dozens. The point is, you hide in the dorms for two days, and re-surface just to hang out with that mislead kid and mess around and sit around in the grass endlessly going on about the 'beaaaauty of nature,' like you're some sort of friggin' botanist or something." He laughed darkly and continued. "And all of this sad pretending to be in touch with all the good things in life comes right after I watched you use the Force to play with that mercenary and his men like a cat with a dead bird." Atton was the one leaning forward now, the worn leather of his jacket creaking as he did so. "Despite what that hag thinks, I'm no idiot. I'm no Jedi either, but I notice things: I'm good at it. And you can sure as hell bet I noticed that you enjoyed what you did. It fed something in you, made you feel strong."   
  
She felt sick because she knew now what she saw in his eyes that day, but she gave nothing away, simply saying, "I'm not sure I understand where you're going with this."   
  
"At least I'm honest about being a dirt-bag." He said, his voice finally rising a little. "Is this what you do? Is this how you got to where you were in the wars? By showing a different face to every idiot that crossed your path until you tricked them into believing that you weren't actually a sociopathic psycho?"   
  
She pulled her knees up to her chest, resting her feet on the seat, listening to Atton's tirade: The words hurt. A lot. They were confirmation of every awful thought that had blown through her head over the past few days.   
  
"…And now that stupid schutta that bends over for the republic is following you around night and day, looking at you like you're the Queen of Naboo, talking to you like you're a Nyridian Space-Nymph, and what gets me… what gets me to the core, is that you haven't stopped him."   
  
"…You're upset because Mical is a nice person?" She said flatly from behind her knees, digging another barb in where she knew it would hurt.   
  
"I'm upset because I can't help but wonder what crap you're stringing me along with!" He snarled, shooting to his feet and swiping a number of pazaak cards off the console. "You're just like the rest of them, you know that? You act like you aren't: You dress differently, you talk differently, you do things differently, but at the core, you're just as rotten... rotten like a spice-whore, begging out the back door of some hole-in-the-wall cantina for anything that'll get you your fix; your justification."   
  
"Our decks are all mixed up now." She observed blankly, "And of all people, I hardly think it's appropriate for you to be leveling such misplaced accusations of dishonesty and half-truths." To make her point, she reached out with her mind and was met with nothing but steel-cold anger and solid waves of distrust. "Who are you?" She demanded suddenly, her planned retort left in the dust and the heat in her voice rising. "That thing you do when you're thinking... I can tell. You bite the inside of your cheek when you frown."   
  
"So?" He snapped. "I'm sure you didn't dig that out of my head, why does it matter?"   
  
She narrowed her eyes into a sharp glare as she frantically took in every aspect of Atton's appearance that the dim blue light allowed her to see: He wasn't extraordinarily handsome by any stretch. His nose was a bit on the large side, and was slightly crooked, probably from being sucker-punched in the face over a pazaak table more than a few times. His nose was offset by pleasing bone-structure though, and a rather defiant jaw. His mouth... wide and despite his anger, slightly turned up at the corners. His eyes were a shade of gray that was difficult to place, due to the lock of brown hair that fell rebelliously over his forehead, but they were...   
  
"What's your surname?" She asked softly, making it clear she was not messing around. All thought of defending Mical against Atton's childishness was swept away the second she observed that incredibly familiar yet exceedingly simple mannerism. It could belong to anyone. Across the galaxy there were probably trillions of individuals who bit the inside of their cheek when they were frustrated or thinking, but she was sure there was only one other person who did it exactly like Atton just had, and Meetra had no idea where she was.   
  
"Did the kid give you spice or something? Rand." Atton said in dismissive annoyance.   
  
Meetra kept her glare set on him. "Got any family around the galaxy, Mr. Rand?" She asked in the same quiet tone, placing heavy emphasis on his name.   
  
"Only ghosts." He said, flatly, glaring at her with equal intensity; she was probing places she could tell he didn't want to talk about.   
  
"I see." She said stonily, unfolding her legs and getting to her feet. "Because in the war, there was this woman who served under me. A lot of people did, but she was... special. Different. She used to do that exact same thing when she was trying to come up with an argument for why my newest strategy was madness."   
  
It was a stand-off. Either he was going to tell her the truth, or deflect her suspicion. She would wait. She was patient.   
  
"Was she hot?" He finally said.   
  
Meetra clenched her teeth and rounded the other side of the console. "She was a Jedi." She spat. "She mentioned once or twice that she... she had a brother." She searched Atton's face for any give away that she was near to confirming her suspicion: She saw none. He just looked down his nose at her, almost bored, and just as it had been earlier, that wall in his mind stood strong and thick, though considerably calmer.   
  
"Sounds nice." He said after a moment. "I never had a brother or sister... just some fish. Bet you screwed her over pretty good though too, huh?" He took her by her upper arms and gently but forcibly moved her aside before breezing past her, leaving the scent of whiskey and engine grease behind him. She stood in the silence for a moment, trying to figure out what to do next. After a minute or two of just helplessly looking around the room she made up her mind and also swept from the cockpit.   
  
"Mical!" She breathed, forcing a bright smile on her face as she swung into the med-bay. He straightened from the Miraluka who was still unconscious; he placed the datapad he was holding down on the counter.   
  
"I was just checking her vitals..." He started explaining.   
  
"Yes, yes. I can see she's still alive." Meetra said quickly. "Look, you have access to the Republic records from the war, right?"   
  
Mical nodded.   
  
"I need you to do some research for me."   



	21. Chapter 21

  
"Every time I see you, you always look like such a vixen." Jil purred coyly over the rim of her wine glass, taking a seat next to Meetra at the bar.   
  
Meetra turned her head to smile at the pretty woman now sitting next to her. "You think so, hey?" She emptied her own wine and waved Gordo over, "The answer to your riddle is this; the cabin that contained three dead bodies that the explorers found on top of the previously unvisited mountain belonged to that of a ship. A ship crashed on the mountain peak. Can I have some more wine now?"   
  
The bartender flashed a toothy smile at Meetra before nodding and grabbing her glass, returning it to her nearly full to the brim.   
  
"Oh my, thank you!" She laughed. "You spoil me."   
  
"Nah." Wils dismissed her thanks. "I just like you is all." He flashed her another beaming grin before rushing to the other end of the bar to serve a fresh and drink-less group of soldiers.   
  
Meetra seized the opportunity when no one else was looking to brush her lips against Jil's, whispering in her ear, "I'm not the only one looking vixen-ly this evening." She sat back in her seat and shared a secretive smile with her counterpart.   
  
"I've always wondered; how did you ever convince Revan to let you install a fully serviced cantina on your ship?"   
  
"Oh it required a lengthy conversation about frivolities and the best uses of my time, but once I reminded him that he was the one who made me a general, and that one of my duties under such a title is to ensure that happiness, emotional welfare and charisma of the squadrons under my command remains intact and healthy, he seemed more inclined to listen. I argued that the men require a place that lets them unwind and socialize... do the things they did before they enlisted. Such as drink, play pazaak and watch bands." She winked and turned her gaze to the dance floor which was a tightly knit swarm of bodies, male and female, moving to the music. Her eyes scanned the crowd and fell on faces she knew, and some she didn't. She set her drink down on the bar, surprised to see Alek's extremely tall figure on the other side of the room, chatting with a group of soldiers.   
  
"What?" Jil asked, noticing Meetra's sudden change in body language. "Oh." She said when she noticed the same thing Meetra just did. She chewed the inside of her mouth a little; a curious little gesture that caused her lips to go a bit crooked and puckered. "Why is he here?"   
  
"Dunno." Meetra said shortly, continuing to glare across the room; he certainly outranked her. By all rights he could spend his time on any military ship he wanted to, but she knew it was no happy accident that he was on hers.   
  
Upon her return from Onderon it had been made clear, amazingly without any expenditure of meaningless words that things were over between the pair of them; no more discreet meetings aboard his ship, no more quietly flirtatious looks shared during news briefs, no more subtle touching of feet under the table during meetings...   
  
Revan had blessedly stayed out of it: He wasn't getting involved and Meetra got the distinct sense that he thought himself to be above the petty scruples of his two closest allies. She wasn't sure if he had done her a kindness or dealt her an insult when the next meeting they were scheduled for had her and Alek's briefing datapads set at completely opposite ends of the table.   
  
"Who's your friend?" She tore her gaze away from her manic and glued a smile on her face when she turned to Gordo.   
  
"Jil." The gray eyed woman said, shaking Gordo's hand over the bar. "Jil Burtrand." She tucked a stray piece of dark hair behind her ear and smiled in that peaceful, inviting way of hers.   
  
"Can we each get a whiskey, Gordo?" Meetra asked, realizing that she required more than just the Force to help her through the rest of this evening.   
  
"I'll do you one better." He said, turning his back and pulling a variety of bottles off of the shelf behind the bar, pouring quickly and methodically. "Here." He said, placing the shots on the bar in front of Jil and Meetra, raising the one he'd prepared for himself. He looked at Meetra in a rather knowing way. "To a good truce."   
  
Knowing there was more weight to his words than what was on the surface, Meetra raised her own drink to Jil's and Gordo's.   
  
"To a good truce." She repeated, and their glasses chinked together before the liquor fell down their throats.   
  
"Wow, that was really good!" Jil remarked, wiping her mouth. "What do you call that?"   
  
"I don't actually know." He laughed, wiping the bar down and placing the glasses in the washer. "I just made it up."   
  
"You would." Meetra smirked, grabbing Jil's wrist and sliding off of her bar stool. "Come dance? The band is starting and I hear they're quite good."   
  
"Lead on, general." Jil replied fearlessly.   
  
Meetra liked that about Jil; by no means were they well acquainted. They were about as well acquainted as any two people who had slept together once could be, but since that night there was a certain closeness and trust that had developed: An appreciation of sorts, for the company of each other. Jil had been there to listen to Meetra ramble over the course of two bottles of wine about everything that had happened between her and Alek and why it just wasn't working, and why she was happy to be done with it et cetera, et cetera. She never said a bad word about him, never lowered herself to being contrived in her agreement that Meetra had certainly made the right decision, never asked more than needed to be asked.   
  
"And, and when this is all done, he can have... he can have Coruscant, Alderaan, Onderon..." Meetra ticked off the planets drunkenly on her fingers. "As long as he keeps his hands off Naboo. He'd hate it there anyway. We'll call it even."   
  
Jil only smiled, and nodded, and poured more wine. Meetra got the sense she didn't expect anything from her and it was quite nice.   
  
The band tonight was some sort of shoegaze outfit from Nar Shaddaa: All dirty noise and walls of sound with a down in the grease sort of rhythm. Lights flashed all around the dance floor as they drove sound from the enormous speakers on the stage, and artificial smoke filled the air and swirled around their feet as they both moved from side to side, oozing their movements into the ground from the tips of their toes to the tops of their heads.   
  
Meetra heard herself laugh over the music as she shook her head and her hair jingled and sang, its many adornments lending a subtle sort of percussion that only she and Jil could hear.   
  
Their eyes remained firmly set on each other, not oblivious to those around them, but simply uncaring as they swayed and moved and shifted from foot to foot, each limb comfortably and easily getting lost in the pocket of the music: Dancing was not a difficult thing, Meetra had discovered.   
  
At one time she would have awkwardly stood around, sort of hopping from foot to foot, glancing subtly at the feet and the confident movements of the women around her who were obviously more rhythmically experienced than she. But it seemed as time and the war had passed, she had become one of those that the less experienced would subtly try and imitate, with her sleek, somewhat primal movements.   
  
Neither were ignorant of the eyes on them, but neither Jil nor Meetra said anything; most people were occupied with their own drinks or dances, but there were at least a few men standing within striking distance that were instantly distracted by the two women dancing with such abandon.   
  
Inwardly, Meetra shrugged away any embarrassment: She understood completely; there was lust in this dance. There was lust in Jil's eyes, and she knew they were reflecting her own. Whoever decided you had to be naked and in a bed to make love was a complete idiot, she decided as Jil placed her hands on her waist and Meetra rested her arms on Jil's shoulders.   
  
A thing happened, where the room seemed to close into the density of a black-hole. Everything was still there, just as loud, just as hot, just as packed. But it was all just stuff around Jil and herself. Force, she wanted her again. She wanted to kiss her right then and there, she wanted to run her hands all over her one more time, feel her hair between her fingers. But she couldn't. Once was enough. Once wasbad enough. It was enough trouble that she had already been sleeping around with Alek, but she was willing to chalk that up to a mistake of youth: She knew better now - Jedi don't fall in love for good reason.   
  
She laughed again, because she really didn't know what else to do anymore, and Jil turned her head when someone tapped her shoulder and leaned in to say something to her.   
  
Meetra mouthed, "What?" When the man pulled away and Jil leaned in close, the scent of red wine on her breath.   
  
"He asked us if we wanted to join in an orgy."   
  
"Really?"   
  
"Yeah." Jil doubled over laughing, nearly spilling her wine all over a pilot that stood directly next to her. "Sorry!" She apologized quickly before turning back to Meetra. "I told him no."   
  
"Why are there orgies happening aboard my ship?" She dead-panned before also bursting into laughter.   
  
She had been about to resume dancing when someone tapped her shoulder this time.   
  
"What?" She laughed as she turned around, a smile still stupidly spread across her face, "You want to invite us to an orgy too?" The laugh died in her throat, but the smile stayed. "Alek."   
  
He bent close to her so she could hear him over the music. "I need to talk to you." He said, his voice low and serious.   
  
Meetra tossed some of her hair back over her shoulder. "No you don't."   
  
"Come with me. I'll make it quick." He promised, grabbing for Meetra's wrist.   
  
"Stop it!" She hissed. "Can't you see I'm in the middle of something?"   
  
"You can come back." He said sternly, making another grab for her which she easily side-stepped.   
  
"No!" She said, raising her voice and widening her eyes in an expression that she hoped got across precisely how stupid he was being. "Despite what you may think, you can't just board my ship and drag me away from my friends because you want a chat!"   
  
"These people are not your friends." Alek reminded her, "They are soldiers who serve under you. How many of them do you think will care to remain in touch with you when the war is over?"   
  
Meetra glanced over her shoulder at Jil, who, rather than getting involved or standing around being awkward, had simply struck up a conversation with the pilot she had partly soaked moments earlier.   
  
"You have ten minutes." She said, mustering as much civility as she could before sweeping away from the dance floor, passing the bar, stopping only to say to Gordo, "Please have another wine waiting for me?" His blue eyes went from Meetra to Alek and he said nothing, just smiled and nodded.   
  
"Where are you going?" Alek called, jogging to catch up to her aggressively quick pace.   
  
"The shuttle bay." She said briskly, "We're going to have whatever little talk you came looking for, and then you're getting off of my ship."   
  
"Maybe I don't want to leave." He said smugly.   
  
"I don't care what you want anymore, Alek. I don't. The fact that you infringed on my space tonight is enough to set in stone the truth of the matter; I don't want you around." She knew her words stung; she meant them to. They weren't easy to say, but they were said. Deciding she owed him more of an explanation than that, she stopped and faced him, her Jedi robes swaying around her ankles. "Look, you and Rev were my best friends when we were growing up. I learned so much from both of you; I looked up to you, I followed every footstep you laid down, I had fun with you, I joked and laughed and had brave adventures with you. But…" Her voice failed her, and emotion welled in her.   
  
There is no emotion, there is peace…   
  
The words came reflexively to her: Those seven little words had defined her entire life since she was a child, and now she was standing in the hall of her personal battleship desperately trying to wring what peace she could from them unsuccessfully.   
  
Was it the sting of Alek's possession that made her feel so incredibly helpless in this situation? Or was it the fact that she held her betrayal with Jil secret and close to her heart? She didn't know anymore.   
  
"… we have a job to do." She said finally, "The war is nearly over, I can sense it, and once it's over you'll never have to see me again."   
  
"That's actually what I came to talk to you about." Alek said, resuming his pace beside her. "I've seen you lately. You're acting erratically; making hasty decisions and spending far too much time in company not conducive to our ends."   
  
"By which you mean?"   
  
He didn't answer, he just continued. "We think it may be in the best interests of the effort, due to the impending close of the war, that you take on a purely administrative role."   
  
"Orders from the top?" She asked curtly. "Because I'm not going anywhere until Revan himself throws me on a ship and tells me I'm done."   
  
"Meetra," Alek began in that lullaby voice of his, "When we were together – "   
  
"We were never together!" She shouted. "Significant other?" She spat derisively, "We were lovers, Alek! That's all. And now, we're simply colleagues. Get over it!" She ran a hand over her dreadlocked hair, not caring about the number of frangipani petals that drifted to the ground when she did this. "Is that all you came here for?" She demanded, slamming her hand onto the console for the door to the shuttle bay.   
  
Alek looked at her with sadness in his serene hazel eyes. It was heartbreaking to see such a handsome face etched with such concern over someone like her.   
  
"You've lost touch, Meetra." He said quietly as she leaned against the doorframe and lit a cigarra. "Stop that!" He said, closing the distance between them and yanking the smoke from her lips and crushing it under his boot. Meetra didn't waste a second before shoving him back with both hands.   
  
"It's time for you to go." She said blankly. "I'll see you at the meeting on Monday."   
  
His eyes searched her face one last time and with the slightest shake of his head, he turned his back on her and boarded his shuttle.   
  
Meetra stood in the doorway of the bay and watched until the vessel her lover was on was a small speck of light within the thousands of space. She lit another cigarette and easily hacked the encryption on the datapad she had lifted from Alek when she pushed him back. She wandered back to the cantina, smoking as she went.   
  
"I wondered when you'd be back." Jil was by her side instantly when she sat at the bar, setting into her wine as she scrawled through the details of the document she had opened. "What's that?" Jil asked, leaning over to take a glance.   



	22. Chapter 22

Nar Shaddaa turned out to be everything she had anticipated it would be; loud, smelly, crowded and depressing. Within hours of touching down on a landing pad that wasn't even theirs, Meetra was already missing the pure breeze and open space that defined Dantooine. Nar Shaddaa was a moon that she had never found reason to visit: It was a refugee planet and a place where the sordid conducted their business. Meetra had neither been a refugee, nor a gangster in the days after the war, so a place like this never even registered on her radar.   
  
But where she ended up these days was not for her to decide, so she accepted the neon lights, billows of pollution and endless city noise, vowing to at least try and find some sort of beauty within the acrid surroundings she found herself in.   
  
She'd taken the opportunity during the rest of the journey to interrogate the Miraluka that had snuck aboard the Ebon Hawk on Dantooine and had come to the conclusion that the woman, Visas, was no immediate threat. Even Mical seemed a bit uncomfortable with Meetra's decision that Visas be given her freedom and a bed without guard.   
  
She felt pity for the blind one; she could feel the turmoil roiling within her: The seemingly endless pins and needles of the Force that escaped her from a dark and lonely space, blasting outwards and vanishing into nothing as she sought desperately for an answer, a feeling, anything.   
  
Identity crisis wasn't the mark of certain evil: It was a cry for help in Visas' case. Meetra wasn't sure what she could do to help, but she knew that crushing her like an insect under the heel of her boot was not the answer.   
  
Maybe it was what Atton had said earlier… the way he called her on all of her lies and saw right through every last one of them. She now had this inner-vendetta to prove him wrong. Or herself… it was hard to draw the line anymore.   
  
So she had collected Visas from the med-bay, tucked her into a freshly made bed, drawing the covers gently over her dark robes before leaving the dormitory only to return a few minutes later with a bowl of warm broth and some water.   
  
The Miraluka had initially spurned her tenderness; turned her head away from Meetra's advances with a broth-filled spoon, but soon she realized her weakness was too great, and accepted that she needed to eat.   
  
It was after that they had started talking. Then things changed, just like Meetra knew they would.   
  
Visas would never try to bring her or anyone on the ship to harm again.   
  
She couldn't help but wonder why it couldn't be so simple with everyone. For a moment, the thought crossed her mind that perhaps if she just knocked Atton unconscious and spoon fed him some food, he'd stop being as unpredictably temperamental as the hyper-drive.   
  
Everyone was different though, and she knew that this was wishful thinking at best: At the worst, symptoms of attachment.   
  
"I'm going to go and scout out our surroundings." She said when she breezed into the cockpit for the first time since their argument. "I just need my comlink." She held up the device as if to prove that she did actually have a tangible reason to be in the same room as Atton.   
  
"You ever visited Nar Shaddaa before?" Atton asked conversationally, not looking up from the electronic version of pazaak he was playing on his datapad.   
  
"Nope." Meetra replied briskly, calibrating her comlink. "But I'm sure it's just like every other ball of filth I've been dragged to in my lifetime."   
  
"You're actually going out there alone?" He said, disbelief reigning over the tone of his voice. "You're either crazy, or stupid."   
  
"We've already established the former, I thought. Remember?" She replied in a chilly voice. "Going alone seems like a decision suited to a crazy person."   
  
Atton growled; a frustrated hiss that came from between clenched teeth. "The stupid A.I. in this cheats!" He declared. "It always starts with a lower card and almost always totals twenty each round."   
  
"It doesn't cheat." Meetra said, placing her link in the pocket of her leather coat. "I have the same version and I can beat it eight times out of ten: Maybe you just suck."   
  
He looked at her from under a glare, "Shut up, Surik." He blanked the screen and set the datapad on the console. "The coding is probably corrupted." He said, attempting to explain away his incompetence against an opponent who he could not actually see and therefore could not pick up on their tells.   
  
"Whatever you say, Rand." She said.   
  
"You know, it wouldn't be such a bad idea to have someone who knows this place come with you…" He suggested. "People around here can be pretty slimy, and I can tell you for a fact a pretty thing like you is going to get shaken down for credits every few yards."   
  
"The sentiment is not lost on me, but I think I'll be fine." She said, falling to her knees and taking her blaster pistol from the storage compartment under the dash. "I managed to win a war and live for a decade alone in subsequent exile. Alone suits me just fine. I don't need your chivalry."   
  
"Force, is it just me or did the temperature in here just plummet?" Atton mocked. "You know what? You are one cold slag."   
  
"What can I say?" Block, parry. "I distrust the mystery in those who are throwing themselves before me to watch my back." She had more words; they were dancing on the end of her tongue, begging to be set free; cut: Just like with Gordo, but she couldn't bring herself to say them.   
  
So she left instead, not waiting around to give Atton any further opportunities to ire her, or herself him; they both needed to be apart right now. This brief exchange of words was irrevocable proof of that.   
  
She wrinkled her nose at the thick, humid stench of life that hit her face as soon as she disembarked the ship. She lit a cigarra, hoping at least the close proximity of the smoke to her face might serve to prevent some of the smell from invading her sinuses.   
  
Her first meditation with Mical had been an interesting kind of success: She had done as he said and drank nothing but water for the day leading up to the session, and then slammed an entire pot of coffee just before they retreated to the cargo bay. She had been surprised to see upon entering that he had… decorated. He'd stammered an apology for the remaining dinginess, claiming he had done his best with what he had available to him; a few tattered bed sheets and some grimy old carpeting he'd found rolled up in the corner of the hold. The scent of frangipani incense filled her nose and he had dimmed the lights so there was only an ambient sort of illumination by which to see.   
  
She had found it difficult to focus initially, especially with the caffeine coursing through her system; she sat cross legged on the dirty carpet, trying to line up her energies, trying to feel connection and peace with her surroundings, but continuously found herself drawing her eyes open and looking at stupid details in the room, like the shade of oily grey that the rug was, and the dust that coated the rafters of the ship above their heads. Eventually though, she forced her breathing into a rhythm; filling her lungs all the way through to her stomach, and exhaling every last bit of air in a gentle, timed pace, and before long, her mind was clear and focused, and when she opened her eyes she could see the swirls and eddies of the Force around her, as she had at Khoonda, and that night on the roof of the Hawk with Atton. She finished the session feeling quite empowered and centred, beaming a genuine smile at Mical before excusing herself to the toilet where she could finally relieve her strained bladder.   
  
The first session was done, and that meant she could drink again. And that was what she fully intended to do, as she found her way to the first cantina she could find.   
  
"Juma." She said to the bartender. "Leave the bottle." He nodded and complied to her request and she paid the man before taking the bottle and the glass provided and retreating to a table tucked away in the back of the bar; she knew Atton would likely be jonesing for a drink too, and she wasn't about to save him a spot.   
  
She set into her drink, resting her feet on the seat adjacent to her and flipping through her datapad for some reading material, finally settling on a foreign novel written by a gentleman known as Leroux. Another one of Revan's suggestions, she hadn't picked up this particular story in years, finding it to be rather dry in her youth. It detailed the success and seduction of a young and talented singer who was tricked and trained and subsequently taken hostage by the hideously malformed man in a mask who had taught her everything she knew, and in doing so, had fallen in love with his prodigy.   
  
She couldn't help but laugh at her own wit; even back then it appeared that Revan had a fascination with masks.   
  
He had a heart that could have held the entire empire of the world; and, in the end, he had to content himself with a cellar.   
  
Her lips quirked in amusement: Ten years of exile meant having a considerable amount of time to read and reflect. She'd always known that Revan gave her such abstract tales with a very real intention and purpose behind doing so, but in her youth and naivety, she often could not figure out what his underlying intention was. It all seemed to simple now, she realized, thinking back on the old play that she was reading in the burned out mansion on Onderon; that one was meant to serve her as a warning. It was a hint, incredibly vague and veiled in mystery and riddle, but a hint all the same. She knew now that Revan knew exactly what he was doing by fighting the war, though she did not. He knew what he was doing in the madness that seemed to increasingly take he and Alek in the last days. Madness in great ones unwatched must not go… I am mad but north north west: When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.   
  
Yes, he knew what he was doing, but he wasn't letting on to anyone… even Meetra.   
  
She supposed it was his awkward way of re-assuring her that there was a purpose to everything.   
  
The Force alerted her to the presence of someone near her. She blanked the screen of the datapad and looked up, only to be met with a variety of unfamiliar faces, although all were very unkind.   
  
"Private party guys." She said, sipping her juma and not moving.   
  
"I told you we would find her here." The leader of the posse said to the man standing directly to his left.   
  
"Do I know you?" She asked calmly, her hand slowly drifting to her blaster when she finally sensed the imminent threat. "I've only been on this planet for an hour, I can't possibly owe you money yet."   
  
"You move your hand another inch towards that blaster and I'll have it off, Jedi." The man barked.   
  
She froze and put a feigned look of ignorance on her face. "I'm still not sure what I've done to provoke such hostility, fellas. I'm just having a drink and reading a book… hardly a crime, is it?" She stalled with her words for as long as she could, though the entire time her eyes darted from face to face trying to glean some sort of recognition. She was at a loss until she noticed the hands of the dark haired man who stood front and centre: He had two completely normal fingers and thumbs on each, but the index and middle were cybernetic prosthesis: Cold and mechanical, she couldn't believe she hadn't noticed them to begin with.   
  
"Oh." She finally said. "I suppose you've come looking for your fingers, hey?" She felt that cold, war-time general of old swell inside of her being and invade her previously jovial countenance. "I dropped them in a reactor along with the rest. So sorry."   
  
"I've searched for you a long time, Jedi." Her former Mandalorian captive growled. "And now you're going to get what's been a long time coming."   
  
She poured another juma for herself and leaned back in her chair. "And how do you propose to drag me, kicking and screaming out of this bar past all of the other patrons?"   
  
The Mandalorian leaned his palms on the table getting in Meetra's face, his cybernetic limbs clicking metallically on the hard surface beneath them. "You're new around here, hey? No one is going to give a flying frack what happens to you: I paid off the bartender to keep quiet."   
  
Meetra only had time to blink once in realization of her situation before heavy metal knuckles collided with her temple, forcing the world into blackness.   



	23. Chapter 23

The seats in the cockpit were lumpy and well-worn, the stuffing within them broken up and warped in a way that was actually quite comfortable if a person managed to find a way to squish it into the right places.   
  
Not that he wouldn't rather have a proper bed though: Sometimes the springs poked up into the upholstery and snagged his pants or dug into the softer parts of his body unpleasantly while he slept.   
  
It wasn't a difficult decision to make at the end of the day: Atton was never keen on room-mates, preferring his entire life to have his own completely undisturbed space. Based on the amount of people Meetra seemed to be un-wittingly recruiting, they'd all be sleeping on top of each other soon. If anything, the cockpit seemed the least inviting though, and in choosing to spend all of his time there, he knew that he had more or less claimed it as his territory. Naturally, as soon as Meetra's pet infringed on it, his hackles were raised: He was busy having a stare-down with his comm. link.   
  
"Have you heard from Meetra lately?"   
  
As soon as that repellently gentle voice met his ears he felt the muscles in his neck stiffen, and he didn't do Mical the courtesy of turning around and acknowledging his presence in his space.   
  
"Ever heard of knocking?"   
  
"I'm sorry Atton, you must pardon my rudeness, I'm only worried that Meetra hasn't returned." Mical apologized. "She's been gone for hours."   
  
"Oh, so you're one of those guys." Atton mused, his lip curling. "The brave, fearless leader is gone longer than you thought she'd be and all of a sudden the world stops turning. Go swab a Petri dish or something; she didn't want anyone to go with her, she'll wander back eventually… probably hammered."   
  
Rather than having the sense to take a hint and get spaced, the twerp held his ground.   
  
"You shouldn't encourage her vices, you know. I suspect they are more damaging to her than either of you suspect."   
  
"Were you born this naive, or did you spend years practicing? I can tell you that every 'vice' that follows her was there long before I was in the picture." He finally levelled a glare at Mical just in time to see him sadly shake his head of blonde hair.   
  
"I don't think you understand. Her grasp on the Force is still insubstantial at best: It controls her more than she controls it. Despite the unpleasant sensations, she needs to reclaim control over herself, as she tends to... well, you were at Khoonda..." He trailed off and averted his eyes. He seemed to receive a burst of courage; Atton saw him pick himself up a little. "You're making it worse." He said with a cool finality that razed every prior notion Atton had that this guy was nothing more than a reedy dork.   
  
He'd been halfway to his feet, ready to knock Mical's block off when his comm sitting on the dash crackled to life and gave him pause.   
  
"What?" Mical asked, when Atton froze, halfway off his lumpy pilot's seat, fixated on the static issuing from the device.   
  
"This is the third time in an hour this has happened." He said, thinking out loud. "Meetra must be sitting on her comm or something because she keeps coming through but it's nothing but static and the inside of a pocket."   
  
"Do you think something could be wrong?"   
  
"I don't know." Atton muttered, rolling his eyes, finding his hostility to be deftly replaced with questions. He snatched the comm. off the dash and shoved past Mical, hustling towards the garage, aware but uncaring of the footsteps that bustled after him: Let him try – if Meetra is in some sort of trouble, he isn't coming along to mess things up.   
  
"You can track the signal on these things, right?" He asked Bao-Dur, holding the comm. out to the tech.   
  
The Iridonian looked placidly upon the device. "On a planet like this? I'm guessing you haven't noticed the bizarre scramble of frequencies that are polluting this place? But then… I suppose you're not a droid." He smiled in that slightly un-nerving way of his.   
  
"You didn't answer my question." Atton said, keeping cool despite the worry growing inside of him: He lied to Mical when he said the comm. had only gone haywire three times: It had been steadily dropping in and out of transmission for the past couple of hours.   
  
Bao-Dur considered Atton's face for a moment before asking, "The general… is she in trouble?"   
  
He wasn't sure if he asked because he genuinely wanted to know, or if he asked in order to glean whether or not Atton was just trying to harass her. The tech had a peculiar and understated sort of protectiveness regarding Meetra.   
  
"Yeah… I think so." Atton said quietly so that prying young ears couldn't hear.   
  
Bao-Dur only nodded once and held out his natural hand. "Give me fifteen minutes, and I'll be able to tell you where she is with only an inch of variance."   
  
Atton took the time to make his way back to the cockpit and get his blaster, deciding to swing by the med-bay to grab some medpacs in case there was immediate need for them when he found Meetra.   
  
"And just what do you think you're doing?" He snapped from the threshold when he caught sight of Mical tightening his blaster holster around his waist.   
  
The smooth face of youth furrowed into a frown, "If Meetra is in some kind of danger, I'm coming with you."   
  
"Fat chance." Atton quipped, once again jostling past Mical in order to get what he came for. "You'll be more of a hindrance than a help around here and I don't have time to baby-sit your helpless ass."   
  
"I'm not letting you go to her alone." Mical insisted, examining his blaster pistol closely for any defect before sliding it into the holster.   
  
"You think I can't handle it?" Atton growled, tossing aside a half-empty bottle of night-time cold medicine. "Think I'll get her killed?"   
  
Sky blue eyes narrowed and clouded, "Sooner or later, maybe."   
  
Atton stuffed the medpacs in his pocket and in one swift movement stood and had Mical pinned by his chest against the supply cabinets with his forearm.   
  
"What's that supposed to mean?" He asked low in his throat.   
  
"I don't know yet." Mical retorted; a bold comeback for a man in his position. "We don't have time for this."   
  
"Wanna know the last thing she said to me before she left?" He said, getting in Mical's face, "She said, 'I don't need your chivalry.' She said that when I offered to go with her to wherever she planned on going. She didn't need my chivalry, and she sure as hell doesn't need yours. So if you know what's good for you, you're going to stay here on the ship and wait until I need someone useless." He finished and released Mical with a final shove with his forearm to the sternum that caused the contents of the cabinet behind him rattle and fall over.   
  
He swept from the room wordlessly, wishing he could ignore the words Mical called after him.   
  
"Do not make the mistake of thinking you're the only one who cares about her!"   
  
Atton flung an obscene hand gesture at his no longer visible rival as he stomped back into the garage.   
  
"What are we looking at?" He asked Bao-Dur, who was leaning against the workbench, typing feverishly into a mobile console.   
  
"I've triangulated her signal down to a five hundred meter radius somewhere in the refugee sector. Give me five more minutes and I'll have her exact coordinates locked."   
  
"Close enough." Atton declared. "Send what you've got so far to my datapad, I'm out." He checked that his blaster was clear in its holster before thudding down the landing ramp into the familiar Nar Shaddaa atmosphere.   
  
He took all the back-routes and alley ways to the refugee sector, pleased to find that he had not lost his memory of the layout of this place in his absence from it. He could still pick his way around the spice-pushers and the pockets of gang members, bounty hunters, and outstretched, grasping hands… it was like he had only left yesterday.   
  
Before long he found himself in the refugee sector, standing on the outside edge of Bao-Dur's triangulation, surrounded by refugees and cargo containers: Meetra could be in any one of these. He steeled himself inwardly, wondering what exactly he was getting himself into. He had no idea what had happened to Meetra, only that she had been away far longer than a simple scouting venture or bar visit would have taken. His mind initially leapt at the thought of bounty hunters; of course this planet was crawling with them. If any of them caught wind that a Jedi was wandering bold-faced amongst them, they'd be all over Meetra like flies on bantha crap if they caught on to who she was.   
  
Why was he so concerned? He answered his question by letting his mind seethe about Mical; if he'd let him have his way and go blazing after her, they'd both end up dead. It wasn't as if he cared to put his neck out for her; she was the one who insisted she go wandering around Nar Shaddaa on her own. If anything, it'd be worth it just to be able to say "I told you so."   
  
Yeah. That worked.   
  
"Have you found her yet?" He muttered into his comm. lighting a cigarra and aimlessly wandering around so as to blend in with every other lost bastard that milled hopelessly around him.   
  
"Yeah." Bao-Dur answered after a bunch of static. "I've nailed down your coordinates too. She should be in the bank of containers directly to your left, one hundred and twenty six meters up. And uh… while I've got you, what did you do to the kid? He looks like he held onto a pulled grenade for too long."   
  
"Thanks." Atton said quickly into the comm. before cutting the signal and stalking off into the shadows.   
  
The cargo containers that many people in this sector – and himself at one time – called home were massive rectangular shaped, durasteel shells. The paint was peeling off of most of them, and the toxic air had caused the metal to degrade at a faster rate than it normally would, leaving them rusted and filthy… probably splintered and ridden with bacterial diseases that thrived on puncture wounds. He took this into consideration as he slipped around the rear of the bank of containers Bao-Dur had indicated and leapt up, hooking his fingers over the edge of the roof of the closest one to the end. The bad feeling in his gut worsened as he dragged himself onto the roof, wincing a little at the metallic thud his boots made as they collided with the side of the container: This was a secluded block, considerably more run down than most and practically inhospitable for living – a perfect place to get away with anything sordid, and an even worse place to get caught trying to prevent such things.   
  
He knelt on the roof of the container and pressed his ear to the rusted and warped metal, listening intently for anything that might indicate life under him. Satisfied that said container was empty, he clambered silently onto the next one and repeated the same motions all the way down the line until he landed a perfect twenty: Voices.   
  
"… tracked you across this entire damn galaxy, thought I lost you for good, but then you just fell into my lap. Maybe there's more to this Force of yours than I thought." Dark laughter resonated around the metal room and Atton picked out four distinct voices altogether, including that of the speaker.   
  
The voice he'd been waiting to hear; praying to hear, piped up then.   
  
"I very much doubt me being anywhere close to your lap is pre-ordained in the designs of the Force." She sounded utterly apathetic; positively bored even. The sound of flesh hitting flesh reached his ears next, and a white-hot anger roared to life within him, but he willed himself still until the right moment.   
  
"'S alright. It's been broken before a few times anyway." He heard her laugh thickly, presumably through blood, and he assumed she was referring to her nose.   
  
Why wouldn't she shut up?   
  
Come on, Jaq. You know exactly why.   
  
She's stalling. You used to deal with Jedi who pulled this exact same stunt all the time.   
  
"I'm just getting started, Surik. I just don't want to rush through this too fast… blow my payload all at once, so to speak." More sleazy laughter. "I spent so much of my damn life looking for you, that I think it'd be a bloody waste of time to just kill you and be done with it, don't you?"   
  
Atton heard Meetra hiss.   
  
"Sith's blood… why'd you pull my hair? I thought you were a Mandalorian, not a teenage girl."   
  
Despite the anger that clouded his vision, he couldn't help but let a humourless smile invade his lips; the Mandalorian was an idiot. He'd gotten so wrapped up in catching Meetra that he'd forgotten one of the primary tenets of any captive-to-corpse situation: Kill quickly.   
  
It was a varied rule, and Atton actually felt pretty uncomfortable sitting on the roof smoking a cigarra and listening to this all unfold. His mind kept wandering darkly to places that he didn't want it to.   
  
If you want to really inflict pain, don't break her nose or pull her hair, you clumsy oaf.   
  
Go for the fingernails: Yanking those out is a sure-fire way to make any postured Jedi scream. Lips are a good thing to go for too, especially if they don't have anything useful to tell you.   
  
You obviously didn't drug her: That's why she's giving you so much back-sass. Idiot. Too bad you didn't come find me first… I know just the right cocktail of substances that'll turn the chattiest Jedi into a drooling moron.   
  
Obviously you had enough intelligence in your thick skull to fit her with a neural inhibitor, or you'd all be splattered all over the inside of this container by now.   
  
But you've wasted your opportunity.   
  
This Jedi is never going to fear you.   
  
She's never going to beg for her life.   
  
You'll never properly enjoy the feeling of holding every delicate nuance of her life in your hands as you crush and bleed it out of her soft human body.   
  
You won't kill her.   
  
You don't deserve to kill her.   
  
You won't kill her … because I'm going to kill you first.   
  
" – Well? On with the rape! I didn't hack that bit off of you!" She goaded, and Atton heard her spit at her captors. He heard boot-clad feet move all at once in one direction, and he took his chance: He dropped as noiselessly as he could from the roof, opting to keep his blaster holstered, choosing instead to draw the wickedly sharp hunting knife from his belt.   
  
It was dark, like it always was in the refugee sector, and the poor light gave Atton a huge advantage over his foes who were so busy with their belt buckles that they didn't even see him slide like a shadow into the container. He picked off the lackeys first, slicing the throat of the first man and dragging him off into the shadows like the human piece of bait he was. Predictably, the other idiots fell for it and aimlessly stumbled into the blackness where he waited, sliding cold metal between whatever bones happened to blunder into him next.   
  
Blood ran down his hands and dripped off his elbows as he turned to their leader; the big Mandalorian bastard with the droid-hands.   
  
He adjusted his grip on the knife, switching from a stabbing hold to a combative slicing one, ensuring it was as efficient and comfortable as possible.   
  
The Mandalorian was pulling a gun.   
  
Meetra, illuminated by the weak light that poured in the door sat wide-eyed, tied to a chair.   
  
"What can you sustain with food, yet if you give it water, it will die?"   
  
He met her eyes with his for only a second before he felt himself lunging at the Mandalorian.   
  
Fire.   



	24. Chapter 24

"Well, that was different." She said in the way someone who had just sampled an exotic and daunting new delicacy might compliment the chef.   
  
"You're bleeding pretty badly. We should get you back to the kid so he can patch you up…"   
  
Meetra shoved Atton's hands away from her bloody face. "I don't want to go get patched up!" She griped, shaking loose the rest of her bonds and getting to her feet. "I want to go finish my Force forsaken drink! In fact, after this mess, I don't even want to remember tonight." Her words garbled together in an annoyance filled string of nonsense. "Can I have a smoke?" She finally said, composing herself, and thrusting her hand out expectantly. She was angry: Angry that she hadn't killed the Mandalorian when she had the chance so many years ago. How many other prisoners had she mutilated and then set free in her arrogance? Too many to count.   
  
"Only if you let me say it." Atton countered.   
  
"Say what?" Now was not the time to tease her.   
  
He looked at her cloyingly and she caught on, although she didn't want to admit it.   
  
"Fine. Go on."   
  
"I told you so."   
  
"Saw that coming." She sniped, snatching the cigarra from his fingers. "But thanks anyway. I'm glad you finally showed up."   
  
"What? To your incessant pocket-dialling while you were getting the crap kicked out of you?"   
  
"I haven't had my comm. on me in hours." She explained, crossing the container and digging around in the pockets of the slain Mandalorian. "He may have been a big dumb Mandalorian, but he had the sense to clean my pockets out before tying me to a chair. Before I left, I calibrated my comm. to send out a distress signal if I needed it to. Just before this idiot knocked me out in the cantina, I managed to activate it."   
  
"Mical and Bao-Dur never got it." Atton observed. "I did have to practically tie the kid to the hyperdrive to keep him from tagging along, though."   
  
"Yes, well, I calibrated it to broadcast on your frequency only… for that reason." She said a bit sheepishly. "I had the thought that if the worst case scenario occurred, having a goof like you, a kid, and an Iridonian with a flashy arm all blundering around the place might ah… draw the wrong sort of attention. You alone were more than capable."   
  
"So you wouldn't take me with you, but you expected me to come running if you got into a scrape?" He asked the question facetiously, but she didn't need the Force to see him stand a little straighter, and lift his chest just a little higher; ahhh… so this one responds well to positive reinforcement. I see…   
  
"And look at where we are." Meetra pointed out. "It worked out perfectly." She tore a scrap of cloth that wasn't blood-soaked off of the Mandalorian's corpse and set about wiping her face clean.   
  
"Your nose?" Atton pointed out, staring at the swollen bridge of Meetra's face, and her quickly blackening eyes.   
  
"I'm not worried about it. It doesn't hurt that much. Honestly, my head hurts more. Between getting knocked out and having my hair yanked on, my nose is the least painful thing right now." She wiped at a bit more blood that trickled out of her nose as she was speaking. "Who pulls hair?" She muttered darkly to herself, taking all of the Mandalorian's credits before finally exiting the container and pausing, illuminated properly by the dirty light. "Hey…" She said, her voice becoming surprisingly soft as she looked at Atton. "Thanks for coming." She wrapped her arms around him and dug her cheek into the space between his chin and his collarbones. "I'm sorry for what I said before. I just… you know. Of all the people tagging along now, I like you the best, and for some reason you're the hardest to get a read on." She met his eyes and smiled. "You're frustrating. I may be crazy, but you: You're downright maddening."   
  
She watched a brief battle occur behind those eyes she was fairly certain she had looked into before, and a skirmish of sorts occurred in her own mind: So what if the ripples of the universe had designed themselves in such a way that the stone she dropped when she loved Jil had expanded to meet the ripples made by the stone that was dropped on Peragus, leaving her standing in the refugee sector of Nar Shaddaa, hugging Jil's twin brother? The more she thought about it, the more it made sense on the surface at least. Jil had always been tall and athletic, a build that Atton shared. Atton had that… fringe thing going on, and Meetra remembered Jil constantly sweeping her hair off of her face. Now that she really cared to find the similarities, they were everywhere; even the way he spoke; a lazy, sleepy sort of speech, was reminiscent of Jil's rhythmic, nearly poetic patterns.   
  
She bit her lip then, and winced; when her teeth grazed swollen flesh. What sort of person did this make her, if she actually followed through with what these ripples suggested? The kind who's into twins, obviously. Ah, but you don't know that for sure yet: You should probably just stop.   
  
She found herself lacking words right now; between the things that were said in the cockpit days earlier, and the time they had spent apart to mull it all over, and what he had just done for her, things had changed somehow. Something was a bit different in that there was a sense of intimacy that hadn't been there previously. An interesting theory indeed… you have to really have it out with a person before you can properly feel like you know them, even if every other aspect of them remains shrouded in mystery. Or maybe it was the fact that he'd just bloodily killed four men for her: Romantic or not, a gesture like that made Meetra feel rather special in a way that flowers and expensive dinner did not.   
  
She was a bit disturbed that she didn't feel more… disturbed, by what she'd just seen. She already knew Atton was good with a blaster, he could hold his own in a fist-fight, and was quite talented with mines, but watching him slaughter a room full of men with a piece of metal seemed to raise more questions about his true character, although after this favour, she felt it would be a heinous sort of betrayal to ask Mical to continue with her little project. But who was this person?   
  
Her brain was flat-lining: Pouring out stupid thoughts and emotions that made her cringe. She surprised herself when she realized that she actually wanted the Force back. She yanked the neural inhibitor out of her neck and dropped it on the ground, where it clattered across the pavement.   
  
"Better." Was all she said as she started walking away. "Do we still hate each other? I'm assuming we're good now. You prevented my needless – and surely tragic death – and I'm not going to even ask for particulars about the sort of training you've had that would allow you do dispatch a group of four men so quickly and bloodily." She said, looking over her shoulder.   
  
Atton shrugged, "I seem to recall being on a planet with you, and you said you'd do me a favour or make something up to me in exchange for another favour… and here I am, doing you another one. At this point, you're just running a tab." Meetra was glad to see his easy-going outward façade had returned: She was no idiot, but now that she knew it was a cover for something deeper, she appreciated it even more. She now appreciated the truth in what he'd said before; at least he was honest about being a dirt-bag, even if he wasn't entirely transparent as far as other things were concerned.   
  
"You're right about that." She admitted. "You may be complete garbage at taking orders, but a soldier that always has your back is about as good as it gets, authority-case or not."   
  
"That's all I'm good for, huh? Your foot-soldier?" He leveled the accusation at her, but there was no heat to it; only a crooked smile accompanied the words. "You know what, you're right: If I wasn't around, you'd be hopeless. You're lucky to have someone who knows their ass from the back end in the blaster… makes up for the rest of the dead weight we carry around."   
  
"We, now is it?" Meetra said astutely, butting her cigarra under her boot as they continued to snake aimlessly around the refugee sector.   
  
"Someone has to commit themselves to keeping your ass in one piece: I have no idea how you made it through the war alive if you ran into as many waves of bad luck then as you do now."   
  
"Jil." Meetra blurted without thinking, though instinctively searched his face for any reaction, now that she had mentioned her by name: There was none. "Towards the end anyway. Well… until she ran off with that pilot…" She trailed off when she realized what she was saying. "Nevermind. We uh… we don't need to talk about that." She waved a hand through the air, swatting the topic away and thanking the Force when Atton didn't say a word; she hadn't expected any less for reasons that were becoming increasingly clear to her: Jil was a topic that seemed to set his teeth on edge. "Wanna play hooky?"   
  
"You say things like that, and I just can't see how the Order put up with you for so long."   
  
"Oh, I was always making up for my transgressions by scrubbing floors and pruning bushes… apparently menial chores are a good way to make a flighty padawan fall in line. That was the theory anyway. But seriously, I have nowhere important to be right now, and considering the attempt on my life, I would rather like to take advantage of still having it." She threw a withering glare at a refugee who they passed who was staring with a shocked expression at the blood all over both of them.   
  
"By that you mean falling over drunk?"   
  
"Probably." She looked from left to right then leaned closer to Atton as they walked. "We ah, we need to do something about your bloody situation, there." She looked pointedly at his forearms; the off-white cotton of his shirt was stained a quickly drying red nearly up to his shoulders. "We're going to continue drawing the wrong kind of attention if you walk around all night looking like that."   
  
He held his hands up and wrinkled his nose at the blood-coated surface of his skin, "You're not much better. Your face looks like a Hutt sat on it."   
  
"Hutts can sit? Doesn't sitting require an ass?" She shot back. "People are staring at us."   
  
"When don't they?"   
  
"I really don't think we should be going into a cantina looking the way we do."   
  
"Then maybe we shouldn't go to a cantina." He said sarcastically, scrubbing his hands sort of clean on his pants.   
  
"Where do you propose, then? I get the feeling there's a distinct lack of grassy fields on this moon."   
  
"Ha! If you could find a patch of soil on this rock, I would eat my jacket."   
  
"Is that a challenge?"   
  
"Not unless you want to waste the rest of your life in this place. Speaking of wasting your life, I know where we're going." He grabbed her hand suddenly and yanked her off the thoroughfare they had been strolling moments earlier, dragging them into a filthy alleyway.   
  
"Gross." Meetra said, shaking some sort of prophylactic off of her boot. "I think I preferred the depressing but well-lit road."   
  
"If you're on foot on Nar Shaddaa, only an idiot uses main routes: Anyone who's lived here for more than a month knows that it'll take a person half their life to get anywhere due to the over-population. Alleys are the way to go if you're walking." She yelped when he sharply yanked her to the left, against the wall and she felt a blast of air hit her face and saw the tail lights of a swoop bike fade into the distant, dark shadows of the canyon-like buildings they were spelunking between. "Almost lost your nose all together." He observed, pulling her along.   
  
"And what if your feet are tired?" She asked, re-adjusting her grip on his hand; she kept sliding loose due to the sticky drying blood that covered it.   
  
He nudged her with his shoulder and forced her around another corner, into what was obviously a speeder-park.   
  
"When your feet are tired, obviously you drive. I thought you Jedi were supposed to be wise." He let go of her and looked around experimentally before sauntering around the back of a red speeder.   
  
"You mean to tell me you have a speeder?" She said, folding her arms over her chest. "That might have been useful to know."   
  
"Don't be ridiculous." He said, moving onto survey a black speeder parked next to the red one. He got on his knees and looked under the chassis of it. "I change my mind so often, I'd have to be an idiot to own one." She heard some wires being pulled loose, and the crack of two connections meeting. Atton stood up and casually brushed his hands off before setting into bypassing the speeder's lock programming.   
  
Meetra was counting in her head, and stopped when she heard the confirming beep that indicated access to the vehicle had been granted: The entire procedure had taken him less than two minutes, and now he was standing there, resting his elbows against the roof, looking quite pleased with himself.   
  
"You thief." She jabbed. "You steal speeders."   
  
" – And transport them across the galaxy and re-sell them for absurd amounts of money. Yup. Or I did until I met you."   
  
Her swollen eyebrow lifted. "Is that why you were detained on Peragus? Someone finally caught on? Noticed the V.I.N. wasn't original?"   
  
"Something like that, yeah." He ducked down and pushed the ignition and the speeder roared to life: He hadn't picked a commuter model. He'd zeroed in on something high class and executive looking. "So are you just going to stand there all night looking surprised? I already told you I was a dirt-bag."   
  
All she could bring herself to do was shake her head from side to side and laugh before clambering into the passenger seat of the speeder. As she assumed it would be, the vehicle screamed class; leather upholstery, wood trim set into the dash and doors, on board navigation, ambient lighting that slowly faded to different colours lining the roof, and the sound system was some sort of high-fidelity custom job that was currently booming out top forty hits. She pulled her door shut and glanced sideways at Atton.   
  
"You knave."   
  
He smiled his crooked smile and lit them both a cigarra before pressing his foot down on the accelerator experimentally: The engine roared in a touchy, deep way that gave away the power it was capable of.   
  
"I think I made a good choice." He said, slamming the speeder out of park, and blazing into the night.   



	25. Chapter 25

She would have been lying if she had said that being in an small, enclosed space with Atton Rand was something she wasn't remotely interested in, but now that she found herself in such a place, she couldn't stop fidgeting; digging dirt out from under her fingernails, gazing listlessly out the window, staring at her booted feet, adjusting the drawstrings on her jacket; anything to keep herself from focusing on the fact that if she reached out slightly to her left and set her hand down, it'd be resting on his leg.   
  
There was a lot of space between the two of them on the Ebon Hawk; the co-pilot's seat was at least four feet away from the pilot's, and the two were separated by a bulkhead. Sitting in this tiny vehicle in such close proximity to her pilot was making her feel uncharacteristically shy.   
  
She cracked her window open enough to slip her fingers through and let her cigarra butt fly into the night.   
  
"You sure got quiet." Atton observed. "Not a fan of sport class speeders?"   
  
"No, no. This is great." She said, still gazing out the window as they sped through over other speeders and between buildings. "I just… uh. Here I am again. With you."   
  
"You just can't stay away." Atton remarked casually, looking over his shoulder quickly before shifting the speeder left and diving down a few city levels. "Admit it, I'm way more fun than blondie."   
  
Meetra nodded. "Mical is… he's sweet. He's also very smart and well-read. He has a very interesting way of looking at the universe… not unfounded, entirely, but perhaps a little idealistic: I actually enjoy being around him."   
  
"Uh-huh." Disinterest defined Atton's voice.   
  
She smiled privately to herself and brought her hand up to her mouth to nibble on the corner of a fingernail distractedly as she spoke.   
  
"You though, you're… I don't know. You're indefinable. Mical follows me around, practically handing every nuance of himself to me for safe-keeping, but you seem determined to make me work for that right."   
  
Atton sighed and adjusted his grip on the controls. "I always did say that Jedi read too much into things."   
  
"Hmmm?" She hummed from behind her fingernails.   
  
"Stop that." He laughed gently, reaching over to tug her hand away from her mouth. "That sound makes me shudder." The corner of her mouth twitched when instead of letting go, he wormed his fingers between hers, using his left hand to control the speeder.   
  
Yeah, alright fly-boy. I see what game we're playing now. Didn't you compare me to a spice-whore less than a week ago?   
  
The thought crossed her mind, but she didn't pull her hand away. Maybe he was trying to seduce her. Maybe he just wanted to finally be able to say he had her. Or maybe he was trying to tell her something. Regardless, despite her suspicions that he was Jil's brother, the evidence she had seen that he was not just a speeder-thief, and his peculiar seeming disgust for just about anything to do with Jedi teachings, she chose to just… relent to the Force and let whatever was going to happen, happen.   
  
It was a simple realization, actually: The more she struggled for control, the more Atton was going to push her away, and she found herself not wanting that. She was drawn to this man, when all evidence should have repelled her and yet…   
  
Be honest with yourself, and with him.   
  
If I like him (which I do,) being coy and flighty is a betrayal to not only myself, but to him as well.   
  
Show him that: What reason would I even have to keep something like that to myself? I don't think this cold, distance thing is really fooling him at all, actually it's just making things weird.   
  
Distance can be good, but can't it also be incredibly rewarding to be close with people? I've become close with Mical, and there's no resistance or guilt there.   
  
I should stop being so stupid.   
  
So inch by metaphorical inch, she let go: She forced herself to relax and compose herself the way she would around anyone else she called a friend, and molecule by molecule, granted herself the peace of mind to finally look Atton's way and give his hand a squeeze. He didn't say anything, but she could tell by the curious way he was smiling and gazing forward that he was satisfied that she had returned the simple token of affection.   
  
"You're not so bad." She mentioned.   
  
"Yeah, you have your moments too." He said, and they didn't speak anymore, content with pop music and each other. She glanced out the tinted window and broadcast her halcyon smile into the smog-filled horizon, relieved at the peace she felt when he lightly brushed his thumb over her own with a tenderness that caught her off guard.   
  
Questions bombarded her mind, as instinctually she was inclined to seek out the root and the cause of this seemingly mutual attraction that had become suddenly so tangible between the two of them, but she pushed the questions away as quickly as they came; she didn't want to know. Not right now: The curious tingle of energy that seemed to be based at the back of her neck told her that at this moment, this was good, and it didn't need to be anything else.   
  
By the time they pulled into another speeder-park, and Atton cut the engine, she was positively bursting with unspoken admissions and things she wanted to say: She wanted to tell him how his lingering scent in the cockpit… an aroma of cigarras, fuel and some sort of cheap aftershave, had become unmistakable to her. She wanted to mention how much she liked the way his lips curled up at the corners, and the shape of his hands, how being in a room with him and knowing that things weren't good between them made her feel physically nauseous, and how she'd always been tempted to give Kreia a smack anytime she referred to him as anything other than the understatedly bright, talented individual he was.   
  
Instead of saying anything at all, she instead contented herself with undoing her seat belt and leaning across the narrow console to press her lips against his. In an instant, they were on Dantooine again, sitting on the roof of the Ebon Hawk, drinking whiskey and philosophizing about what the stars meant. Those same blue waves roiled around them again as he took her lips with a fervor that left her feeling warm and unburdened inside. His thumb brushed her cheek and his fingers wound themselves in her hair: Hair that although being tangled and greasy from her earlier ordeal, was soft and natural, not the coarse, thick ropes she had been famous for in the past.   
  
She felt the corners of his mouth lift against her lips, and then they were gone, accompanied by a low chuckle.   
  
"Take it easy, sweet thing. We're not where we need to be yet." He punctuated his sentence with one more quick, yet equally sensual brush of his lips on hers before squeezing her hand and swinging the door open.   
  
She willed her feet off of the floor of the speeder and onto the hard duracrete floor of the parkade they were in. She stood and felt herself wobble a bit, so she rested a hand on the open door until the ground stopped spinning beneath her.   
  
"Where are we?" She asked Atton, who had disappeared to rifle around in the speeder for anything valuable.   
  
"Hey, look! Spice, and a blaster in the glove compartment." He remarked, standing up and holding up the two items. "Bet this belongs to someone in the Exchange."   
  
"And that means?"   
  
"It was probably already stolen before I took it, and if whoever we stole it from finds out we stole it from them, we're in big trouble." He threw the blaster back into the speeder, but pocketed the spice. "Good thing we're almost done wandering around public places, huh?" He threw her a wolfish grin before slamming the door shut and walking down the corridor of parked speeders that surrounded them.   
  
"Yes, but where are we going?" Meetra pressed: They had been driving for nearly an hour, and by her reckoning, were a good distance away from the refugee sector and the Ebon Hawk. This sector of the moon, or what she'd seen of it out the window seemed to be a bit newer and a bit cleaner (though not by much.) There appeared to be more flashing neon and running speeders and a generally better sense of upkeep than what she'd seen of Nar Shaddaa so far.   
  
Atton's answer was only his arm over her shoulder and the words, "You'll see."   
  
He lead her up a stairwell and down a hallway before they got into a glass lift that flew up the side of the building they were in; she pressed a hand against the glass and looked quizzically at Atton.   
  
He shook his head and jammed his hands in his pockets. "You remember how I mentioned wasting your life? When I found work lifting speeders and finally made enough cred to not sleep on a dirty mattress in a shipping container like every other refugee, I thought it'd be a good idea to blow a bunch of money on an apartment: You know, a place that I could call my own and didn't smell like a Gammorean's bathroom." He looked a bit disdainful as he continued to speak. "I bought a ship too, and ended up spending way more time living in that thing as I went from planet to planet, dropping stock off for whoever wanted to pay the most for it. I think I've actually only slept here a handful of times. I should of known better; never was good at staying put in one place."   
  
Meetra shrugged, "It's good to know that at least you didn't spring out of some hole in the ground: You have a past. That's a good thing, because it also means you have a future."   
  
"That's one way of looking at it."   
  
"What can I say? I'm the eternal optimist." She grinned at him. "Please tell me that it's at least better furnished than the last apartment we occupied." She stepped away from the glass wall of the lift and allowed herself to break that wall of personal space between the two of them. "And please tell me it has a shower." She said quietly, standing on her toes to whisper in his ear. "I'm covered in blood again."   
  
If she was as naïve and inept at the concept of seduction as most Jedi seemed to be, she would never have said or done such a thing. Or if she had done it, she wouldn't have had the slightest idea what such behavior tended to do to a man.   
  
Feigned ignorance was future bliss.   
  
"Shower yes. Furniture… can't promise much. I'll be surprised if the place hasn't been looted."   
  
"How about a drink?"   
  
"That, I can guarantee, doll." He flashed his teeth at her before bringing his lips to hers again.   
  
"Ow!" Meetra howled, stumbling back a few steps when his nose collided with her own broken one. She blinked away the tears that flooded her eyes of their own volition and brought her hand away from her nose to see fresh blood glistening on her fingers. A few choice obscenities rushed out of her mouth as her vision swam.   
  
And then he started laughing at her.   
  
"Can't you just heal it?" He snickered, watching her wipe blood on her pants.   
  
She tilted her head up and gingerly pinched the bridge of her nose. "Healing is a talent I was never blessed with. I was always better at dressing injuries in the field with gauze and forceps. Ugh." She finished her sentence with a groan and leant against the railing of the lift to steady herself.   
  
"Poor Jedi." Atton teased, draping an arm over her shoulder when the lift came to a halt. "Got roughed up by a few Mandalorians and now your entire day is ruined."   
  
"Stop it." She grumbled, her voice muffled behind her hands as he lead her out of the lift and into the hallway as she continued to try and curb the flow of blood. "'S not funny. I was really having fun kissing you." See, stupid woman? Honesty isn't that hard… even with a busted up face: It really is a damn shame that noses tend to get in the way.   
  
Atton paused momentarily to dig around in his pocket. "Me too." He said, putting a medpac in her hand. "It won't set it, but it'll sure take the edge off."   
  
Meetra crammed the medpac in her coat pocket and smirked; men – boys – they were all the same: If making out was even a vague possibility, they would fan those flames with all they had, in what they thought were the subtlest of ways. "Did you give me that out of genuine concern for my well-being, or for fear of missing out?"   
  
"Maybe a bit of both." He said casually.   
  
All she could do was shake her head and smile a little as they walked, footsteps muffled by soft sea-foam green carpet. She took in her surroundings as they passed suites and wall hangings; this was actually a fairly nice looking place, as far as living on Nar Shaddaa was concerned. She didn't doubt for a moment that most of the people who could afford to live in a place like this were involved in some sort of illicit activity that generated enough money for this sort of living.   
  
The paint on the walls was clean and recent, and there were no weird smells eking out from under doors and mingling strangely in the hallway. Large mirrors were placed every few meters, and Meetra wondered vaguely who had set about procuring such an impressive collection of paintings to just leave in a corridor.   
  
She felt a bit uncomfortable in her silence; without even stepping foot in Atton's suite, she could already tell that this place was nice. Maybe not Coruscanti-marble fountains and gold-plated cherubs in the bathrooms nice, but it was a bit daunting all the same.   
  
She never lived anywhere that could have been classed as "nice." She'd always either existed in the confines of the academy, on a battle-cruiser, or in a camp on a planet somewhere. During her exile, she drifted aimlessly, the only occasion to experience such opulence was the unfortunate and embarrassing period of time she had been unwittingly forced into a wardbrobe of exquisite dresses and some sort of arranged marriage agreement after crash landing on an ass-backwards planet where people hadn't even discovered electricity yet.   
  
Meetra Surik never put much stock in nice things: She had a bed-roll and a change of clothes, and whatever couldn't be carried with her in a rucksack was of no enduring material value to her. Throughout her exile that was one of the tenets of the Jedi that never did fully wash away: Possessions and tangible material were fleeting, unimportant distractions that brought temporary meaning and value to life, but that value was fickle and would change like the weather, being given meaning only by the essence of the person who had decided to do such. Life was much more straight forward when things weren't important. She couldn't imagine ever actually owning something like a home.   
  
Apparently Atton Rand couldn't either, for the stale dusty air that her filled her nose when he opened the door was reminiscent of the abandoned hovel they found on Telos. It took him a minute, but when he managed to remember his security settings to gain entrance to the suite, it hit her exactly how little he occupied this place.   
  
It was well kept enough, she decided when the lights came on: It was simple and despite Atton's earlier prediction, appeared to be entirely intact. A plain beige couch was set against the wall, and in front of it, a holo-vision that had never even been taken out of the box it came in. Apart from that, there was really nothing in the apartment. A kitchen table with one chair, and an eating bar and a blanket over the window. The only thing decorating the wall on the far side of the room was some sort of ancient looking poster. Meetra kicked her boots off and wandered over to it, squinting at it curiously: Some sort of withered and cloaked figure holding a light of some sort and a staff on a backdrop of blackness.   
  
"What the hell is a Led Zeppelin?"   
  
"You must be joking." He said, as he started digging through cupboards in the kitchen; those were nice too, Meetra decided: Some sort of dark, well polished wood… also dusty. "Tell you what, you go clean yourself up. I'll keep looking for something for us to drink, and I'll even put some Zeppelin on for you."   
  
Meetra finally let her hand fall away from her face and smiled despite what a frightening sight it must have been.   
  
"Why you gotta be like that?" She asked him.   
  
"Like what?"   
  
"So ahh… different. I mean to me. Why me?" The words slipped out before she could stop them, but she found no regret filled their absence in her mouth.   
  
He didn't answer her right away, he only turned from the kitchen looking vaguely amused before disappearing briefly down the hallway, returning moments later with a black towel.   
  
"I'm still trying to figure that out." He said, pushing the soft terry into her hands. "Don't think I've ever even used that one. Brand new." He smiled, although she thought it to be rather bitter… possibly a little self-conscious.   
  
"Thanks." She said, hugging the towel to her chest. She just looked at him for a moment, and he cleared his throat sort of awkwardly, and she rolled her eyes and kissed him quickly before bustling down the hall, in search of hot water.   



	26. Chapter 26

He noted that she looked a bit lost when she wandered back into the living room half an hour later, as if she had gone somewhere else entirely during this period of time, and didn't quite have the capacity to remember where she was. Her feet were bare and transparent drops of water snaked down the side of her face and the column of her neck, darkening the places where they came to a halt around the collar of that grungy beige tank-top she'd worn since Telos. Somewhat glazed eyes took in the room around her before finally resting on himself and becoming alert once more.   
  
She looked a damn sight better, though she still looked a bit on the tattered side: Her hair was lank and shiny with water, and her face, although no longer smeared with blood, was still a bit swollen and he thought even for all of that, the pale blue eyes that he felt watching him from behind curtains of hair and bruised sockets, were some of the most inviting he'd ever seen.   
  
"I'm sorry." She said. "I didn't mean to stare."   
  
"Impolite Jedi." He said, shaking his head from side to side and crossing the room only to put a drink in her hand: Some sort of really pricey whiskey he'd bought along with the place to celebrate: He'd had a glass of it before resigning himself to self-loathing at retreating to bed: He hated this place from the moment he signed the credits over to that shifty Twi'lek. It was a structural reminder of his sad and short-lived attempt to make himself believe he could put everything in his sordid past behind him and be normal, happy human being.   
  
The physical emptiness of the place spoke volumes alone; everything was either in boxes or covered in dust. There was an unmistakable absence of that lived-in feeling that anywhere called "home" should have, in fact, that feeling was replaced here with a sad sort of time-warp: This apartment was a period of time, frozen and subsequently abandoned. He'd never cared to come back to it and wallow in the emptiness on his own, fully intending instead to just leave it be with the hope that someone would eventually break in and steal all the things he "owned" and set fire to the rest of the place. He made no mention of his disappointment upon opening the door today and finding the dwelling to be as intact and untouched as it was when he had left it.   
  
But for all of that, there was a fullness in the eggshell coloured room now and it was coming from the Jedi standing in the middle of the room, dripping wet and glancing around her surroundings with quiet curiousity.   
  
"Weren't kidding when you said you never spent much time here, huh?" She asked, sipping the fine whiskey.   
  
"Not even a little." He admitted. "Honestly, this place was one of the worst decisions I've ever made."   
  
"Why don't you just sell it then?"   
  
Because I'd like to have it here, just in case I ever feel like giving normalcy another shot.   
  
"Re-sale on apartments isn't good right now. I'd be losing money if I tried selling it these days." He lied again without even thinking; it came so naturally to him at this point that there wasn't a moment of hesitation before he found himself trying to deceive her once more. Honesty was something that he hadn't put much stock in for years, and despite the warm, familiar feeling he got whenever he was around Meetra, he couldn't bring himself to let that particular wall of lies and self preservation down.   
  
He snaked an arm under her arm and around her waist, pulling her against him in a way that still felt so untested and new. A month ago, if he had thought to try something like this, he would have thought twice for fear of Meetra boxing his ears for his forwardness, but he was slowly realizing that although she seemed just as hesitant and uncertain, she didn't mind and that if he wasn't the one to do it, eventually it would be Mical: The kid had only been with them for a couple of weeks, and already Atton could pick out the stars wavering in his eyes whenever Meetra was nearby.   
  
I saw her first. It wasn't the right sentiment, but it was the first one that came to mind.   
  
He tilted his glass and gently tapped the brim of it against Meetra's.   
  
"To not getting brutally raped and murdered by a Mandalorian with droid-hands."   
  
"To that." Meetra responded, and they drank. She swallowed hard before looking up at him. "You promised me music, you know."   
  
"And you promised you'd make it up to me on Dantooine when I played sniper for you." He shot back. "What's in it for me?"   
  
He did it: He issued the challenge just to see what she would do with it, and from the vixen-eyed look she was giving him, she knew it too.   
  
He liked that about her; she wasn't one to balk at a phrase so full of suggestive innuendo. Most would call him deranged, or a pig, or have their legs in the air before he could say another word… she on the other hand, was somehow able to deflect his own lurid sexual ideals back on him in such a dignified and deliberate way that it made him wonder; who was seducing who? Who was in control of this situation? He was starting to think it wasn't him anymore.   
  
He supposed it made sense; being a tight-bodied Jedi in her early twenties likely earned her a fair bit of male attention from those around her during the war: She didn't get to be a respected general by coming across all mortified and open-palmed slapping every poor bastard who made a move on her: She had probably just learned to play the game. That in and of itself explained her nonchalant dispatch of that Wils tool and the idiot at the nightclub on Telos.   
  
"If you stop staring off into nothingness, thinking about Force knows what and put some music on like you said you would…" She did that thing she'd done in the lift earlier, where she leaned a bit closer and put her mouth right next to his ear, her hot, gentle breath seeping into his head like a miasma. "I will give you my word that you'll never have to clean a single toilet the entire time you pilot the Hawk."   
  
"I really hate the idea of cleaning toilets…" He agreed.   
  
"Mhmmm…" She acknowledged, drawing her lips across his cheek, stopping when they landed on the corner of his mouth. "Thought so. So how 'bout that music, Atton?"   
  
He realized then, just how few times she actually used his name on a day to day basis, and he, hers. Really the only time it came up in conversation was when she was annoyed with him or when she needed something. Conversationally speaking, the pair of them seemed to get by with "Rand"'s, "Surik"'s, "Jedi"'s, and "Fly-boy"'s. He felt his ears grow hot.   
  
"You're a minx, you know that, don't you?" He said, pulling away from her and kneeling on the floor under the Led Zeppelin poster, shoving aside the pile of blankets that was covering the holorecord player. "I was always under the impression that Jedi are chaste and all that other garbage."   
  
"Well for one, I'm not a Jedi and I haven't been one for over a decade. Secondly, you're the one who started it, pal. What am I supposed to do? Ignore you? Thirdly, chastity is boring, especially after experiencing promiscuity." She ticked the items off on her fingers. "Imagine, if you will, how much more friendly the Order would be if they all got laid every once and awhile."   
  
"Oh I get it." He laughed from his place on the floor as he sorted through holorecords. "You get to just hang around all night and be a tease, is that it? Give a hopeless bastard like me the unfounded hope that I've got a chance?"   
  
"Don't be daft, butthead. You've got a chance alright, I just can't help but wonder what I'm getting myself into."   
  
She said it so easily: So casually and openly. There it was: He was a durasteel trap and she was an open book. She did this… thing, that other women he had been attracted to for hours at a time seemed incapable of: Confidence it was daunting, in your face, undiluted, and loud. She just did it. She was standing in his living room with black eyes and bruised cheeks, clothes that hadn't been washed in days, wearing a smile that could have set a thousand ships to unknown regions of space for the certainty that lived within it.   
  
And she was just giving it to him: Handing it all over like a pool of credits lost in a game of pazaak.   
  
He didn't deserve that: Less than a week ago, he'd likened her to a spice-whore, tore her apart as a knee-jerk reaction to compensate for his own stupidity and inadequacy. But further than that, she knew Jil: He'd known it from the moment she had mentioned her Jedi companion during their argument in the cockpit, and he liked to think that he had so far managed to make a play of his ignorance fairly convincingly, although he nearly dropped his charade when Meetra had mentioned her by name earlier. What was he supposed to do now that she suspected they were brother and sister? Come clean? Admit that he'd killed his twin by his own hand, and expect that to go over well? Maybe she wouldn't care that much, but something about the way she had just vaguely trailed off after mentioning Jil abandoning her for a pilot made him think that perhaps Meetra wasn't just chapped because Jil left her high and dry at the end of the war.   
  
He'd barely known his sister. The academy took her when they were both so young that all he remembered of Jil were the fleeting and piece-y memories of childhood, and of course their tragic reunion on Telos years ago: How the hell was he supposed to know that Jil had the same tells as he did? That was a comparison he never would have thought to pick out in a thousand years, and yet Meetra had pounced on it in an instant.   
  
Taking advantage of a woman's kindness was something he had no qualms with: He'd lost count of the times he'd found a single woman at a cantina, spent the night flirting with her, seducing her, flattering her, only to end the night feigning utter horror and embarrassment at the fact that his wallet had mysteriously vanished right after the drinks stopped being poured.   
  
So why the inclination to spill his guts to Meetra of all people?   
  
He started the holorecord and tugged Meetra down to the carpet next to him.   
  
"Sit and listen." He ordered, getting to his feet.   
  
"Where are you going?" She asked and he held out his arms.   
  
"In case you forgot, I'm still covered in blood. I'll be back. Seriously, just listen. This one is best enjoyed for the first time if you're alone." He smiled encouragingly and wandered into the bathroom, stopping to pour himself a fresh whiskey along the way.   
  
The light in the bathroom flickered on and he was pleased, but unsurprised to see that it was clean. Hot, humid air from Meetra's shower still hung in the air, and although the mirror was no longer fogged, beads of condensation still hung from the shower door and the sink. He pulled his jacket off and hung it on the back of the door before yanking off his bloodied shirt and gloves, leaving them in a heap in the corner.   
  
He was glad for the excuse to get away for a minute; the moment he had realized where things had started between Meetra Surik and himself, and where they were at the present moment, he panicked.   
  
He planted his palms on the corner of the sink and stared at his face in the mirror.   
  
Care about her?   
  
Yeah, actually.   
  
Wanna keep her safe?   
  
All the time.   
  
Like her?   
  
More than I'd ever admit to anyone else. Or her.   
  
If I had the option to leave her and everything else right now, would I?   
  
No.   
  
That. That sentiment alone is messed up, Jaq, and you know it.   
  
His hand flew of its own accord and contacted only briefly with the glass of whiskey before it sailed off the shelf above the sink and shattered to pieces against the back of the toilet.   
  
You know more than enough about Jedi to have the knowledge that involving yourself with one would be a poor choice. She may be different, she may not be one of them, but those slick and perforating tentacles are still trying to wrap themselves around your mind: It can't be anything other than a trick. A game.   
  
He silenced his thoughts by dousing his face with cold water over and over again until all he could feel was the sting of the nerves in his face, and the freezing sensation running down his back while music floated in the doorway from the hall, muffled by the door, but the notes ever etched in his head carried him away in his stupor.   
  
"Really makes me wonder…" he muttered, yanking a hand towel off the shelf and setting about drying his face. When he was done, he flung it into the corner by the toilet over the shattered glass and pooled liquor, resolving to deal with it later. He switched out the lights and ventured back into the kitchen, finding a new glass and filling it with four fingers of whiskey that would have fed and clothed an average family for at least a year.   
  
" – is humming, and it won't go in case you don't know. The piper's calling you to join him."   
  
He turned silently to the living room for reasons he wasn't sure of. It didn't matter: She hadn't noticed him as far as he could tell. She was sitting cross legged where he'd left her, her hands resting on her ankles, holding her drink with her spine tipped forward, intently staring at the player, completely still and silent. Her head turned sharply when she sensed him watching her, and he was utterly taken aback to see that her eyes were red and tears dwelled on her cheeks.   
  
"Don't be alarmed," she said. "I'm just a person who weeps at beautiful things." She laughed a little; that sort of self-deprecating and manic giggle he'd heard a hundred times but never really thought much about before. Her laugh in most situations was a confident, haughty exclamation. He never noticed till now that this bizarre and self-conscious titter was reserved solely for him, and it gave light to exactly how unsure of herself he made her. Her. Meetra Surik. The General.   
  
When he'd joined the war, he'd been too young, too inexperienced and untested to be assigned duties that required any sort of contact or service under Surik, but he'd certainly known of her. Everyone did. You couldn't turn on the holovision or read the news without seeing her charismatic and bright smile beaming back at you. In those days, her eyes were wider and brighter, and her face was fuller and more youthful, framed by that dark, dreadlocked hair that made her famous. For years, the trend among young women became locked hair, or at the very least, finding as many odd, naturally occurring things as possible to tie in it. You couldn't walk down the street on any civilized planet and not see at least ten girls and women with feathers and crystals woven into their hair.   
  
She represented freedom and bravery for many, but to young girls and older women, she represented something else as well: Capability and strength. There had been one occasion of note in particular, when facing the media at a live press-conference, the man who would eventually become Darth Malak, found himself stumbling and tripping over his words in an effort to explain a particularly controversial decision that had been made in a recent effort. The recording had gone viral because Meetra, sitting to his left at the press desk, watching him calmly while he butchered his explanation, finally reached over and swung the microphone her way before launching into what at the time was said to go down in history as one of the most inspirational war-time speeches in recorded memory.   
  
She was the inspiring face of the war, while Alek and Revan had been the gears and brute force behind it.   
  
Jaded and well into his thirties now, Atton knew that Meetra's enlivening and captivating image was nothing more than well-placed propaganda: A young, pretty woman endorsing the cause was far more appealing to most than two men. One had to reflect on the successful formula for most liquor advertisements.   
  
But all that aside, her strength of character in the war was not limited to being exceptionally talented at the front-line media aspects. When he'd enlisted, it had been one of his biggest goals to be in the same room with this woman at least once in his time of service. The way other soldiers spoke of her made it easy to lose the line between rumour and fact, but he had always secretly craved the opportunity to meet her and see if what was said was so true. He thought it impossible for someone trained as a Jedi to be as friendly, forthcoming, and daring as Surik had been made out to be. Soldiers spoke of interactions with her as if she was a friend, and battles with her as nothing short of a spiritually invigorating experience. They clung to the idea of her, not because they wanted to bang her, but because she had somehow given them reason to live, carefully tailored to each of their individual needs.   
  
And now she was sitting on his living room carpet, listening to his favourite album of all time, with tears on her cheeks and a smile on her face, only because she thought the music was beautiful.   
  
Something fell away from his very being at that moment, not unlike a loose part falling off of a ship during the jump to hyperspace, and he realized that regardless of who she was, or what she'd done, or who he was, or what he'd done, he would follow this woman to the ends of the universe without a second thought if she only asked him to.   
  
He felt his lips lift at one side and he took the bottle of whiskey with him, claiming his place beside her on the carpet.   
  
"You're not who I thought you'd be." He said.   
  
She looked at him sideways, dragging her teeth over her split lips. "What do you mean?"   
  
"Seems like during the war, everyone in the galaxy knew you in some way or another, or thought they did. Honestly, you're not at all what I expected."   
  
"Ten years of exile will do that to a person." She submitted. "Some things may remain the same, but by no stretch am I the same person everyone thought they knew in the war. We grow, but only because we choose to: I chose to do all of my growing after the war. Force knows I had more than enough experiences to learn from." She raked a hair through her damp hair. "Beautiful people don't just happen. No one comes into life being entirely wise and graceful and all-knowing, and they also don't just become that way because one day they felt like it. Beauty becomes such through adversity: Defeat, suffering, struggle and loss. The Order chooses to subvert pathways to all of these things, and for that, they never experience them, by doing this, they choke off the only true way to experience beautiful things. I didn't figure that out until after I lost everything." She pointed at the holorecord player. "You could have put this on for me ten years ago, and I wouldn't have batted an eyelash. To me at the time, it would have been exactly what it is: Music."   
  
"What is it now?"   
  
"Music." She shrugged, taking a drink. "But there's so much more to it than just that. This is a creation. It's something that was once just an idea in someone's mind, and brought to fruition by a like-minded group of people. It's a memory of something powerful."   
  
Atton filled her glass and took time to appreciate the scent of her hair as he did so.   
  
"So how about that Jedi that left you in the war?" He waited for a reaction; surprise, shock, curiousity, but none came.   
  
"What about her?" She asked flatly, turning her eyes down and fussing with the frayed hem of her pants.   
  
"You said she abandoned you for a pilot."   
  
"She did."   
  
Who's deflecting now, kitty cat?   
  
"And?" He prompted: Might have been the whiskey, might have been the way he could see the modest curve of her breasts from the angle he was at, but he was feeling daring. "Call me crazy, but the way you say it makes it sound like you took it a lot more personally than just another defection."   
  
She bit her lip some more and he thought that if she didn't stop, she might very well chew it right off. She was thinking hard about her answer so he gave her time to answer, taking the opportunity to put a new holorecord on.  
  
No amount of whiskey could have prepared him for how damning her answer actually was.  
  
"She was special," Meetra began, getting to her feet. "Sorry. Before I go on, where's your jacket? I need a smoke."  
  
"Bathroom."  
  
She returned moments later with a cigarra held between her lips and the rest of the pack in her hand. She sat neatly once more on the floor and leaned her bare shoulder against his and he shivered; he'd forgotten that he never bothered finding a clean shirt.  
  
"Alright." She said, heaving a huge sigh and lighting the cigarra. "I uh- I dunno… she was talented and strong in the Force. She always knew what was happening inside of a person… it was like when she looked at you, she looked right through you. But it wasn't threatening or intimidating." She laughed quietly. "She just knew when you weren't being yourself, and she was the most useful companion I've ever had the pleasure of calling 'friend' for that reason: Always there with an encouraging word, ready to sit down and unravel the puzzle with a sort of patience I never possessed during the war. Don't get me wrong… she wasn't stodgy and uptight by any means… in fact I think one of her most endearing qualities was her ever-present enthusiasm. She was always moving, always talking, always coming up with some interesting question or another. Jil was the reason I could keep some sort of lightness in my life towards the final days of the war… her leaving was entirely brought about by my own ignorance."  
  
He listened raptly, if anything for the masochistic waves of nostalgia that crashed over him for the sister that this woman had clearly known better than he ever had.  
  
"She found out about Malachor. I told her of my plans and of my goal to make that place the place where the war was won. She was furious… appalled. I remember her looking at me like she didn't even know who I was anymore. I remember her telling me how far from the realm of morality this was, and that she wouldn't have any part of it. She told me she was leaving with that pilot of hers, and I bade her an affable and understanding goodbye. Days later, after much consideration, I decided she was too dangerous to be kept alive: She knew the finer points of the battle plan for Malachor five, and if she went to the Council with that information, all would be for naught."  
  
Her eyes were still focused forward, staring blankly at the poster on the wall as a muscle in her jaw twitched.  
  
"I wanted to win the war. I wanted to be the one to do it. I wanted to see gilded statues of myself in major cities across the galaxy and have songs sung about my cunning and skill. Master Vrook was not wrong on Dantooine when he mentioned my lust for blood and victory at any cost: I was willing to destroy whatever got in my way to get where I wanted to be – to fulfill my fleeting ambitions, and it seemed that the final obstacle that was in my way was someone I had come to love."  
  
"Love?" He said, hardly hearing his own voice for the culmination of puzzle pieces he was currently placing together in his mind.  
  
"A Jedi must not know love." She quoted. "But I was no longer a Jedi and at that time, all I knew of love was Jil. When someone just… hands you that part of them, by doing something stupid one day like smiling at you, or saying your name, or kissing you, you realize your heart is no longer yours."  
  
That's because love takes hostages. He found himself observing vaguely as she continued to vomit out revelation after revelation without mercy, and it occurred to him then that she knew exactly what she was doing.  
  
"And by my own hand, I had doomed us both: She was dangerous now, so I thought, so I assembled a special squad of soldiers, uniquely trained for my purposes alone, and I sent them after her and her soon-to-be groom."  
  
He took particular pause at these words and shifted uncomfortably on his palms when she said them. He was beginning to regret even breaching the topic to begin with: All he was hearing were things he could have died happily oblivious to.  
  
"It was a game of cat and mouse that went on for the entirety of the months leading up to the end of the war. When it ended and I returned to Coruscant, my chain of command dissolved and so did my elite squadron. Imagine my surprise upon leaving when I stole as much documentation from Revan as I could, and found his plans to… to expand on my particularly focused experiment: See, by the end of the war, Revan and Alek were not the childhood friends I once held so dear. They were different; dark – lost and to my eyes, increasingly mad, as I'm sure I appeared to many. Their goals after Malachor were the stuff nightmares were made of though, and I knew that I had made a heinous mistake. I faced the Council, I accepted my charges, I took my sentence of exile, but after leaving republic space for a time, I made a very deliberate point of hunting Jil down myself: If what I had read in the files I had stolen was true, she would never find peace: Only death and pain… or things that I'm sure were much worse than what was implied with words… she deserved the chance to save herself. I searched for weeks, and found myself on Telos. I managed to find an address… an apartment, and I found her husband. She wasn't there at the time, but I told him to warn her, to take her and their child and leave for a planet so far off the map they would never be found…" She slammed the rest of the costly whiskey in one swig. And Atton wanted nothing more than for her to just shut up. "I don't know if that warning ever reached her… Telos was destroyed by Saul Karath less than a week later." She finished with a noncommittal jerk of her shoulders that Atton knew was entirely a feint. She had wound him up, but good. She knew it too. She'd been waiting for him to ask about Jil, and now the ball was in his court.  
  
He didn't know what to do anymore.  
  
Breathing? What the hell was that?  
  
Blinking? His eyes were wide and dry but he couldn't force his lids down.  
  
Say something? What the frack was he supposed to say?  
  
She loved her? She loved Jil? She was in love with Jil? She had presumably kissed Jil, possibly even slept with her? No matter what way he posed the question to himself, it just failed to register properly in his utterly gobsmacked mind.  
  
I murdered my own sister the very day that Meetra Surik showed up to try and save her. I took her away from her forever.  
  
But she tried to kill her first… a uniquely trained squad… a concept that Revan picked up and ran with: Training soldiers to hunt Jedi.  
  
Training soldiers like me.  
  
Me.  
  
"Atton?" Her voice cut through the static dominating his mind and he looked into those wide blue eyes for only a moment before standing, grabbing his jacket and bloodstained shirt from the bathroom and vanishing out the door without a word.   



	27. Chapter 27

  
Mical was sitting in the pilot's seat facing the entrance to the cockpit when he boarded the Hawk to silently grab his things and get the hell out of dodge. The kid's arms were crossed and an uncharacteristic glare lived on his face.`   
  
"You just been sitting here like a complete ass the whole time?" Atton snapped, shoving spare clothes and any other spare belongings he had into a bag.   
  
"Where is Meetra?" Mical asked coldly, not moving. Atton realized then that in one of his crossed arms he held a pistol.   
  
"She's safe. Just like I said she'd be." Atton ground out, having neither the time, nor the temperance for whatever sort of drama this idiot was about to dump on him.   
  
"And where are you off to so quickly?" He trailed after Meetra like a hopeless juvenile, his voice soft and gentle, but now it was a dangerous and serious whisper.   
  
"None of your damn business… get lost."   
  
"Are you leaving?" The question was his unspoken intention, and he paused his hurried packing to stand straight and meet Mical's eyes.   
  
"Yeah." Was his answer, although he didn't move: The threat in Mical's countenance was unmistakeable. "I've decided I'm done with this song and dance."   
  
"I'm glad we're of the same mind." Mical said smoothly. "I know who you are, Atton."   
  
His stomach balled itself into a tight knot and his heart moved upwards a few inches into his throat. He didn't say anything; he just clenched his jaw tight and glared, stupidly holding the half-full bag in one hand.   
  
"You are a murderer, Atton: A criminal of the worst sort, and yet you come aboard this ship and you take advantage of her kindness and her ignorance. She won't ignorant be for much longer: I know now. I know the names of every Jedi you murdered under Revan." He held up his blaster-free hand and ticked off each kill, though Atton knew there were more than could be counted on one hand alone. "Jarron Kel, Nony Xerys, Ariana Senn, Dug Ja-Se'el… Jil Burtrand." He let the final name hang in the air like the noxious poison it was. "That's right. I know about your twin and I know your real name, Jaq Burtrand."   
  
"Yeah? And?" His pulse quickened and his muscles tensed. For the second time that night, every fibre was crying out for blood, this time for the purpose of self-preservation. "I'm leaving." He re-iterated.   
  
"Yeah you are." Mical confirmed, and Atton imagined how fulfilling it would be to blacken every inch of that arrogant face. "You're leaving, and you won't come back. You won't try and contact her: You won't send any transmissions, you won't write to her, you won't call her, and you won't follow her. I will not sit idly by and suffer a murderer in her midst… one who may one day decide to prey on her."   
  
"I think you're blowing this way out of proportion." Atton said, holding his hands up to indicate he was no threat: Despite his ultimate desire to crush Mical's pretty face into a bloody pulp with the heel of his boot, the little prick had him at a disadvantage; Atton had left the apartment in such a hurry that his blaster was still sitting on the kitchen counter, miles away from where he needed it. "I would never hurt her."   
  
"Then why else would you be leaving?"   
  
Atton crushed his eyes into a deadly glare. "Three guesses, schutta-for-brains. I'm tired of this game. I'm tired of sharing air with useless life like you. I'm tired of sticking my neck out and wasting my own perfectly good time on disgusting mouth-breathing Force users." He took a threatening step towards Mical. "Now you put that thing down before you get hurt, son. I don't need a blaster to hurt you in ways that'll make you wish you never went snooping around in the first place."   
  
"Do you agree to my terms?" Mical asked, not lowering the blaster.   
  
Atton rolled his eyes. "Like I've already said twice, I'm leaving. I came back here with the intention to leave. What part of that don't you get?"   
  
"If you come back, I'm telling her everything." Mical promised, low and dangerous. "She doesn't need someone like you in her life. You're a cancer, Atton."   
  
The walls he had built up over the years throbbed and strained against the weight of the hate he yearned to set free: The very air around him felt curiously alive, and the smell of lightning filled his nostrils as he fought to keep his breath steady.   
  
"I'm going to find you one day." He growled, heaving the bag up onto his shoulder. "I'm going to find you when she's not around, and you're alone off doing callisthenics in a field somewhere, and I'm going to make you beg for a death that will never come."   
  
"Don't be so quick to cast blame, Atton. She asked this of me."   
  
He dragged his hand over the three days of stubble that peppered his jaw before turning and leaving the Ebon Hawk and getting back into the speeder he had stolen earlier.   
  
He punched it into drive and cruised aimlessly into the city, not knowing where he was going, not knowing what to do.   
  
Not knowing what he wanted.   
  
He groaned in frustration and raked a hand through his hair as he drove, turning up the music as loud as he could.   
  
Everything had fallen apart as quickly as it had come together: What choice was he left with? Mical knew everything: He knew who he was and what he was capable of. Meetra had just confirmed to him an hour earlier that not only did she know Jil, but she was her lover as well. The pieces of the puzzle were falling together in her favour and not his. So what was he left with? He had fully intended to leave when he abandoned her in the apartment, but now that it was an expectation, he wasn't so sure he wanted to anymore: Was he actually going to be the one to back down and let Mical have his way? Maybe. But there was also a part of him that clawed furiously at his insides, telling him that it might not be the worst idea to go back to Meetra and tell her everything, if only to let her be the one to make the decision.   
  
She had told him everything, but she did it with an effortless honesty that he knew he couldn't just pull out of his ass because he didn't want to leave.   
  
Fidgety and restless, he beat his fist against the steering of the speeder a couple of times as he drove. He felt utterly caged, violent and unpredictable like a trapped animal. Both Meetra and Mical had him backed into a corner, and lashing out was an opportunity he had now passed up twice in one evening.   
  
What was there left to do now but just… drive?   
  
So he did. He drove, and drove and drove until the sun started peaking in the hazy grey sky, a mottled and weak orange orb that he drove towards until it became too high in the heavens to chase any further. His eyes felt heavy and his body sagged heavily into the leather upholstery of the speeder.   
  
He'd driven half-way around the moon before he kicked the speeder into reverse in the middle of traffic and sped away in the direction he'd come from, feeling the sun at his back.   
  
He parked the speeder and got on the lift, wondering if it had taken this long to get to his floor before. He tapped his hand impatiently on the railing of the lift and darted out of it as soon as the doors started opening.   
  
He found her right where he'd left her, sitting cross-legged in front of the record player, the morning sun filtering in through the window and dancing in her hair and sparkling over the holorecord sleeves covering the floor around her that hadn't been there when he left.   
  
She looked up at the sudden cacophony caused by his entrance, a startled expression on her face at first that gave way quickly to a genuine smile.   
  
"I knew you'd be back." She said brightly, getting to her feet. "You're uh- you're out of whiskey." She angelically held up the empty bottle.   
  
He crossed the room in three paces and carelessly swept the whiskey bottle out of her hand and it landed with a soft 'thud' on the carpet.   
  
"Okay– ?"   
  
He didn't let her say anything: He didn't want her to say anything. Anytime she said anything she seemed to only give him another reason to question the only thing that really made any sense right now; her.   
  
He yanked her close so that her body was flush with his, and even though he was once again wearing that blood-stained shirt, she made no move to pull away. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, burying his nose in her hair as she still squirmed in surprise at this rather violent early-morning bear-hug.   
  
"Atton – "   
  
"Shut up, Meetra." He said, loosening his grip only so much so that he could take her lips to his, feeling them give way to surprise and return the kiss. "Just shut up." He begged, only momentarily turning his attention away from her mouth before pressing his lips to hers again.   
  
The kiss they shared on Dantooine was alright; it was a kiss. Kisses could be just as hollow and empty as everything else, and although it certainly hadn't fallen under that category, it was an impulsive gesture at the time: One that didn't really mean anything but was more of a testing of waters. This though… this was different: He could tell by the way that she slid her arms around him and pulled herself closer, and the way that her lips smiled against his and her fingers danced gently over his unshaven jaw and came to rest at the back of his neck.   
  
"Was it something I said?" She chuckled softly, pulling back enough to gaze at him in the golden morning light. "I'm very confused."   
  
"Me too." He assured her, collecting her hand from its resting place on his neck and pressing his lips to the soft skin on the inside her wrist. "Meetra, I – "   
  
She was the one to interrupt this time, with nothing more than a stern look. "I think that perhaps right now, 'shut up' is a rule that should apply to us both."   
  
He took her meaning right away and sealed their agreement with another kiss, taking care to mind her nose this time. Her split lips still tasted vaguely of whiskey and blood, but he wouldn't have had them any other way: They were hers. The kiss deepened, and he could tell by the way she was pushing her frame against his that she wasn't the sort of woman that had to spend hours preparing for a romp, plucking hairs and picking just the right outfit to be forgotten on the floor in the heat of passion.   
  
He'd studied the shape of her lips dubiously in the past, but gained a new sense of appreciation for them now, for she used them with artful skill, taking the time to trail small kisses across his unshaven jaw and burying her face in the crook of his neck and shoulder, inhaling deeply; a sound that to him was part relief and part wanting.   
  
Despite everything that had occurred since she strolled through those doors on Peragus in nothing but her underwear, he was willing to cater to this.   
  
Meetra Surik: Jedi Knight, General, Exile… Conqueror of Twins. It doesn't matter, doll. Mical can try and put a blaster bolt in my skull the next time he sees me for all I care. I want this because I don't want you to want him. I want you and the tired, lazy kisses you're placing on my lips because you're too drunk and exhausted to do anything else.   
  
They kissed in the weak light for awhile, alone save for the sun-lit flecks of dust spiralling around them, at least, he thought it was dust… maybe it was something else. He didn't know anymore. He didn't know anything anymore.   
  
She finally summoned up the bravery to peel his jacket away, and he couldn't help but wonder if she was just shy or inexperienced, although he already know that the latter wasn't true.   
  
"C'mere." He whispered, knowing already that the next thing he was about to do was about as corny as it gets. He gathered her in his arms and swept her off her feet: Hey, it's a fair play, angel; you don't know where the bedroom is and giving directions at this point seems like it'd be a mood-killer.   
  
Meetra mumbled his name into his blood splattered collar as he shifted her to a more comfortable position and opened the bedroom door. He was only momentarily embarrassed at the small amount of socks and underwear left to sit on the floor for Force knows how long. He was far too interested in her to care.   
  
He swept a few shirts off of the bed and set her down before closing the door and returning his attention to the woman sitting there, propped up on her elbows, looking at him as if he was the most appealing thing in the world. He still didn't understand why she'd taken to looking at him like that, but he didn't argue.   
  
He had wanted to be here, doing this exact thing since the day he met her. It was hard not to think about things like their first meeting during any spare time he had in the cockpit: The first time he laid eyes on her, she was practically naked: Soaked to the bone from the kolto tank she tumbled from, underthings clinging to the most inviting places, drenched through and nearly transparent, by all other definitions. She didn't seem too concerned about it at the time, but he knew she caught him snaking a look more than once.   
  
Now she was bone dry and healthy again, her shirt somehow gone in the time it had taken him to remove his own and turn back to her, the dark points of her unruly hair resting on the slope of her breasts as she resumed leaning back on her elbows and staring at Atton with a hunger in her eyes that he'd only caught fleeting glimpses of before when she thought he wasn't paying attention: An open invitation, and one that he wasn't willing to waste another moment debating.   
  
He closed the distance between them and joined her on the bed, lowering his mouth to hers and wrapping his arm between her ribcage and the bed, feeling for the first time the sensation of her bare chest on his. She freed an arm to wrap around his back and crush him even closer to her as he took the opportunity to nudge her chin up with his nose and cover her neck with kisses.   
  
Meetra surprised him when she launched herself off her elbows and caught Atton around the ribs, knocking him onto his back, usurping the position that was his only seconds before. They both laughed a little before she swept some hair off his forehead and ran her hands from his hips up the sides of his body, digging the tips of her fingers into the spaces between his ribs with a ferocity that drove the air from his lungs as she spread brave kisses over his chest.   
  
He brought one hand up to clench in her hair, as she continued her pattern of kisses.   
  
It took her a minute to figure out the workings of his pants: He had to rig a key-ring onto the zipper to hook over the button to keep the zipper from sliding down. Stupid pants.   
  
For all the women he had bedded in the past, he hadn't found a single one that was able to remove pants seductively. Pants were tricky: Ankles always got stuck, or one leg came off before the other leaving a person to hop around the room like the hopeless idiot they were. But she, despite falling victim to all of these typical pratfalls, did it with such a suggestive smile that he couldn't keep a smirk from spreading from his face.   
  
You're fun, Surik. Did you know that? Some broads get into bed with you and try and screw you like you're their hero. While it sure feeds the ego, it gets old fast. You though; I mean I did just find out that you ah… you're happy to go both ways, and you're obviously the sort who's perfectly alright with taking sex at face-value. That is what this is, right?   
  
His hands got to know her, by her own ragged invitation and hers got to know him.   
  
She laughed and sighed and threw her hair around and his breath quickened as he watched all of this unfold: She's wild. She's feral. She's beautiful in the way a forest fire is: Unbound, un-caged and something you should never get too close to: It occurred to him that she wasn't doing for his benefit but for her own.   
  
When it was all over, she slid off the bed and padded across the room, placing a hand on her naked hip and staring placidly at him from behind flushed cheeks.   
  
"I do think a cigarra is the most exquisite thing afterward, don't you?"   



	28. Chapter 28

They wandered the refugee sector, drinking coffee and chatting. In all honesty, they were putting everything they were meant to be doing on the back burner and taking the time to recover from their hangovers.   
  
Meetra hadn't mentioned his sudden departure and eventful return: She knew that what she had told Atton about Jil had thrown him for a loop, but she had always learned that as a leader, it was best to teach by example: The truth may not have been easy, nor pretty, but in telling it to Atton, she hoped she had at least weakened the foundations of some of his distrustful nature. She hadn't been surprised when he left, and she wasn't surprised when he came back only hours later: She knew enough of him by this point that the doubt in her mind of him leaving for good was very weak indeed. She had dumped an awful lot on him, and his subsequent reaction had only served to confirm everything to her.   
  
She was however curious about what had occurred in the time he was away that caused him to come back and take her to bed with such an overwhelming sense of desperation blooming around him through the Force: She may not have technically been a Jedi anymore, but old habits die hard, and she hated to admit that she was subtly manipulating Atton to get the truth out of him. She knew everything she was doing and was aware of every string she was pulling, though she wasn't completely sure she was doing it out of bored curiosity anymore.   
  
"It's not funny." She said through her mouthful of bagel as they sat on the bench outside the greasy-spoon diner that Atton swore on his life had the best hangover breakfast in the sector. "I killed three men with my bare hands and poisoned one to death on that backwards planet to avoid getting married. Look: As far as I'm concerned, I've already spent too much time doing things that I didn't want to." She waved her coffee through the air. "So if I just want to make out all the time, you can bet your ass that I'm going to: Jedi don't get married, they don't have families, and they don't wander around fat and pregnant for nine months."   
  
"Thought you weren't a Jedi." Atton smirked, taking a bite of his breakfast sandwich.   
  
"You know what I mean." She said, rolling her eyes and taking a deep chug of coffee. "Can't physically have kids anyway." She said dismissively, "So you uh, don't need to worry about your fervour, earlier." She looked pointedly at his groin.   
  
She almost laughed when his ears went red, but shut up when he managed to speak.   
  
"What do you mean?"   
  
She shrugged and tore off another piece of bagel with her teeth. "During the war, after I ahh lost my virginity, I decided that little Force-lings weren't a risk I was willing to take: A kid would take up all my time and energy and my ambition would be cast by the wayside and I'd spend the rest of my days cleaning up after them and all that other motherly stuff.'   
  
'And to prevent this terrible possibility you'?'   
  
'Used the Force to selectively sabotage my inner workings.' She didn't bat an eyelash when Atton nearly choked on his coffee. 'Seriously though, I would never recommend this very permanent method of contraception: I almost died from the blood loss." She snickered over the rim of her cup. "Explaining to Revan why I was stuck in the med-bay and unable to command a siege on some mid-rim planet was probably one of the most embarrassing conversations I've ever had."   
  
"Yeah? Didn't take it well, huh?"   
  
Meetra grinned. "I seem to recall him standing cross-armed at the end of my bed wearing those over the top robes of his, stoically mentioning something about me being the biggest idiot who ever held a lightsaber. Shortly after that though, I was made a general, so the decision ultimately worked in my favour."   
  
"You don't regret it the decision at all? Even though you're not even one of them anymore and have the freedom to do whatever in space you want?"   
  
"Looking back, of course it was foolish, mad, idiotic, and irresponsible, but if you don't take chances then you'll never have a winning hand, and I have no regrets."   
  
Everything that Meetra Surik ever said had a certain amount of intention metered behind it: Conversational banter was neither here, nor there to her, but she meant everything she said. Very rarely at this time in her life did she find opportunity to put real weight behind her words, but she did now. She ought to: She had years to think about it: Years to spend regretting Malachor V and everything that lead up to that point. Inside her soul, there still lived a pang of sympathy and sorrow for her own ignorance, but regret was a word she had left floating in the silence of space years ago: Longing for a family and motherhood may have nagged at her every now and then, but the decision she had made then was a vital composite of her current state of being. To her, one could not pick and choose individual aspects of themselves to love and hate; if success and happiness were to be achieved, one must learn to love themselves all-encompassingly first.   
  
Just as one should always have patience with others, one must also have patience with themselves. Just as one should always find forgiveness others, one must also have the grace to forgive themselves. Just as one should not vehemently shame another, one must not shame themselves.   
  
There was a mouthful on her mind, but at the risk of waxing far too spiritual so early in the day, she held her tongue. She had learned to be careful of saying too much to people at once: Her words flew from her mouth with such poetic and verbose charisma that she knew it was dangerous to speak so freely from her heart.   
  
Master Kavar had always been keen to pick out this particular talent of hers, reminding her often that with such well articulated wisdom she had the makings of a Master.   
  
"You uh...you seem so much better than when we met." Atton said, swirling what was left of his coffee around in his cup and looking at his feet. "You seem so...frack, I dunno...calm, and peaceful, like it's pouring off you."   
  
She laughed and glanced sideways at him. "Yeah and not weeks ago I was trying to pull a mercenary's head off with the Force."   
  
"He had it coming." Atton declared. "That's not what I meant though. On Peragus, you seemed so fragile. Even on Telos there were times I was worried you were going to keel over without warning."   
  
"You worried about me on Telos, huh?" She said, crookedly smiling and raising an eyebrow.   
  
"Shut up, Meetra."   
  
"I'm just bugging you." She promised, stiff-arming his shoulder, still positively thrilled on the inside that she had found such a connection in Atton. "What can I say? I find myself in good company, despite the utter bantha-crap that surrounds us." She smiled despite the bitter words. "What would you be doing at this exact moment if you had all the freedom in the galaxy?"   
  
He thought a moment before answering, "Sitting on a beach somewhere, with a live band, surrounded by scantily clad women and an open bar."   
  
"Oh please. How unoriginal." She shook her head and tucked some hair behind her ear.   
  
"Alright then, oh judge, jury and executioner: What about you?"   
  
"I would be..." She let the words hang as her mind wandered to the right place. "I would be running through a forest. I would be barefoot and living in a silent, lush, grassy meadow on the top of a mountain on a planet where the sky was always blue. I wouldn't own a single item, other than the bare essentials to get me by. I would hunt and trap all of my own food and provide my own shelter. I would bathe under waterfalls and find friends in the trees that are so much older than I. I would...I would tend flowers and dance with the moons late at night. I would never be afraid of anything."   
  
"But you would be alone. Wouldn't you want at least one person to be a part of that? Someone to talk to?"   
  
She felt a little bit sad as she shook her head: Not a weepy sort of sad, but a truthful and accepting sort of sad. "No. I uh...I really don't think I need people all that much. I've sort of made due without them for quite some time."   
  
She could tell by the blank look on his face that she was confusing the poor man even further, so she changed the subject.   
  
"I always imagined that Jolee Bindo and I were of the same mind." She said before draining her coffee. "Ah, would you look at that. I'm out of coffee. Do you need another? I sure do. Would you mind running in and getting me one?"   
  
"I'm nobody's errand boy." He retorted. "What's in it for me?"   
  
She did it partly because she genuinely wanted to, and partly because it was what she knew he wanted: She stared at him with sultry eyes and dragged her teeth across her lip.   
  
He got the point.   
  
"Black, extra strong?"   
  
"Like my heart." She confirmed, plucking a cigarra from the pack and sticking it between her lips as Atton vacated the bench and disappeared back into the diner.   
  
For the fourth time since she and Atton sat in this space, she watched a pair of Twi'leks wander around the corner. The other three times they had strolled passed she and Atton, they were chatting and carrying on until they disappeared around the other side of the block. This time though, they made a distinct point of staring right at Meetra, stopping at pointing at her for a moment and then leaning close to consult each other in hushed voices.   
  
Meetra squinted at the pair; both were dressed poorly in nothing but rags, and there was no blaster holster nor any tell-tale bulge of fabric that would give away a concealed weapon on either of them: By all appearances, they were merely refugees that had taken notice of her.   
  
She sat a little straighter as she hauled on her smoke and stared them down and ran through the possibilities in her mind: They may simply have recognized her to be from the war. Possibly they wanted an autograph. They weren't mercenaries; not enough pomp about them. That didn't mean they wouldn't go find one that would promise to cut them in on the bounty if they lead them to her, though.   
  
She held her unblinking stare as they finished speaking to each other and began approaching her. She relaxed her muscles, allowing her posture to be as comfortable as it had been before Atton had left.   
  
"Sorry guys. It's my last one." She said, holding up her cigarra.   
  
"That's...not what we wanted to talk to you about," said one of the Twi'leks. His companion was craning his neck to look in the diner window behind Meetra.   
  
"Yes, yes, that's definitely him." He said to the other after a moment.   
  
Meetra frowned and stood up, ashing her smoke as she did so. "I'm sorry, but is there something I can help you with?"   
  
"My companion and I, we spotted you here, and most curiously, your male friend as well."   
  
"Do I know you?" She said, frustrated by the elusiveness of the Twi'lek's words.   
  
"Not us." The Twi'lek said, holding up his hands. "But we know him' and wondered if you did too." He gestured with a tilt of his head towards the diner.   
  
"I was just sitting here eating breakfast with him and having a conversation, so yeah. I think it's fair to say we're acquainted." She said, growing impatient. "Why? Got something to say?"   
  
A cunning grin split the Twi'lek's face. "Some information that may be quite valuable to you about this' friend of yours: It'll come at a cost."   
  
Meetra sighed and reached into her pocket, unable to stop herself. "Alright, how much do you want?"   
  
"25 credits."   
  
She shrugged and handed over the currency, not about to complain about the loss of such an insignificant amount of money. "Hit me. But hurry it up, he's coming back."   
  
"This one...he is a refugee like us. He showed up on the Smuggler's Moon around the same time of us, claiming to be displaced by the war, but he is not one of us. He is no soldier, no refugee...I would advise you not to trust this traveller of yours...he is a killer, tried and true."   
  
Meetra blinked and nibbled the rim of her disposable cup. "I see. Anything else?" She asked, giving nothing away.   
  
"That is all I can give you." The Twi'lek said. "But you would do well to watch your back around that one." He and his companion stalked away.   
  
She chewed on the rim of the cup until it was a sodden, papery mass. Killer. The pieces were falling together, and her mind burst with questions but also with the knowledge that if she wanted to get any answers out of him, she would have to approach this fairly delicately. At least, that's what her Jedi teachings reminded her. She stared at the lid of her coffee cup, utterly fed up with the intrigue: She'd just slept with him for Force sake.   
  
No. She wanted answers, and she wanted them now, and by space, she was going to get them: She'd levelled with him without him even having to ask; he owed her at least that much.   
  
He came back through the door a few minutes later and she grabbed him by the elbow and entered the diner with him in tow.   
  
"I'm cold." Was all she said when he started asking what was going on. She threw herself down in a booth.   
  
"You? Cold? You run like a furnace." He quipped, sliding onto the bench across from her, his face falling when he noticed her change in countenance. "Hey, what's the matter?"   
  
"Just ran into some friends of yours." She said coolly as Atton slid her a fresh coffee.   
  
"Yeah? Did I owe them money or something?" He joked, trying to dissipate the tension.   
  
She sighed and leaned back, momentarily pressing her eyes shut as she regained a sense of calm. "Listen," she began, her voice becoming smooth and controlled once more. "We need to talk, and you need to actually please try and be honest with me. Now I've done some really awful things: I've made some poorly thought through decisions such as trying to destroy my uterus with the Force. I wiped out an entire planet to win a war, and I made a habit of regularly mutilating my captives and wearing their bones in my hair. I served under two of the maddest Jedi of our generation, and I have done some truly heinous things to people I supposedly cared about if only for my own benefit. I can assure you that nothing you have to tell me about your own past will make me balk."   
  
"Did Mical contact you?" He asked.   
  
She frowned in confusion. "No. What does that have to do with anything?"   
  
"Nothing." He answered quickly.   
  
"See, this is just not doing it for me." She said, blowing on her coffee. "This side-stepping and one-word answer gig is really getting stale."   
  
"I really don't know what you want from me right now."   
  
"The truth, Atton." She said, forcing herself to keep her voice down. "I want to know why you seem to be completely willing to give me everything except that: You freely give me your time, your aid, your energy, your skills, your money, your blaster, your company, your booze, your...your body, even! Keep all the rest, Atton Rand: I want the truth."   
  
He stared at her in shock for a minute, and her ears were filled with the sound of patrons and staff around her carrying on with their morning, ignorant to the metaphorical knife she currently had pressed to Atton's throat. "What did those boneheads say to you?"   
  
"You showed up around these parts part way through the civil war, killer." She gave the word very specific emphasis. "The truth is, the moniker itself is of no issue to me: I myself fall under the same title. My issue is with your seeming inability to tell the truth. I can't help but wonder why buddy out there warned me to watch my back around you."   
  
"Meetra, don't. You're not actually going to listen to that sack of scrag, are you?" He sighed and glared at his coffee. "Of course I showed up during the civil war...along with a lot of other refugees."   
  
"Honestly, you don't owe me your story. I can't expect that of you just because I told you mine. But Atton, seriously, if there's anything you want to tell me, feel free."   
  
"You're right," He said. "I don't owe you anything. If I wanted to tell you my life story, I would, and I don't."   
  
"Cool it." She said, leaning close over the table. "Honestly, I just don't understand why you're so engarde about the matter at all. I even say Jil's name and it gets your dander up. I can't help but wonder."   
  
"Then do it." He dared her. "Yank it out of my head yourself. You Jedi are good at that sort of thing, aren't you?"   
  
"Atton, you're not a prisoner tied to an interrogation table. Whatever you have to say, I want it said of your own volition." She took a breath and sipped some coffee, maintaining her composure. "Besides, I've already tried. Once." She added.   
  
"Yeah? When?"   
  
"On Telos. That night in the abandoned apartment: I got gutsy and tried tapping that brain of yours...it didn't work." She set her face and stared at him stoically. "I showed you mine, now you show me yours."   
  
"Oh no. That's not how this works, sister." He shook his head. "Like I said, I owe you squat. If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't have even made it out of that mine in one piece. You wouldn't have been able to keep those Czerka clowns from taking over that Ithorian's plans for Telos without me. You wouldn't have been able to win that battle at Khoonda if I hadn't been the one to get those droids online, and you sure as hell wouldn't be sitting here right now if I hadn't saved your sorry ass from that Mandalorian last night. The way I see it, you're the one who owes me, not the other way around."   
  
"Well now you're just being ridiculous." She said smoothly.   
  
"I am. I am the most ridiculous man who's ever lived. You know why? Because I'm trying to help you of all people."   
  
"If you don't want to, then why do it? Why tag along? Why protect me? Why save my life over and over and then take me to your silly apartment and sleep with me?"   
  
He shrugged and rested an arm on the back of the booth. "You're asking the wrong man, sweet thing. I don't even know half the time."   
  
"But you do it anyway." Meetra said plainly, stirring some sugar into her coffee. "I just want to know what you did before the wars. I get that you ended up here and made a prosperous living for yourself being a speeder thief, but thieves don't slaughter men like you did last night."   
  
It was working: Her calm, composed attitude was keeping Atton in check, and every one of her arguments wrung a little more information from him.   
  
"I haven't interrogated you about your whereabouts during the war." He seethed. "I haven't asked about it even once."   
  
"Did your brain fall out, or are you still drunk? You've asked me about the wars twice in the past twelve hours: First about Jil, and second not fifteen minutes ago outside the diner."   
  
He launched into a droning tirade about all of the other well-known atrocities she committed during the war, and she fought to keep a bored expression on her face as he fired each round at her.   
  
"You name these places as if I don't know them or remember them. I've already mentioned, Atton that I am fully aware of the crimes I've committed. I've also mentioned my lack of regret for them. I get the distinct sense that you and I are one and the same."   
  
"Exactly: You're even worse than I am. How do you sleep at night? How do you keep putting one foot in front of the other?"   
  
"Fortitude," She replied blankly, lighting a smoke. "The desire to carry on despite what mistakes were made in the past: We learn little from peace."   
  
"Did you want them to kill you when you went back? Is that why you did it? Crawl back with your tail between your legs, hoping they would put you out of your misery?"   
  
"No," She answered simply. "I went back because it was the right thing to do."   
  
"Crap. All of it: You went back because you wanted them to kill you. You hoped that your crimes and your brutal tactics and the human bones you hid in your hair would be enough for them to think that you were too dangerous to be kept alive."   
  
"If I saw no value left in my life, I would have taken it myself." She said, and she meant it: The thought had certainly crossed her mind when she felt the Force scream through her at Malachor...when she felt the pain of so many lives, snuffed out in an instant. She still remembered the hot hum of the lightsaber in her hand, only inches away from her throat, one small twitch of the wrist away from absolving her everything.   
  
"Whatever. They swept you under the rug, banished you and struck you from the media and history itself. You were no hero at the end of the war: You were a psychopath. You were fallen. You were an embarrassment, but one that they couldn't bring themselves to kill."   
  
"I was always likeable." She said nonchalantly, reaching over to the ashtray.   
  
"You know what? Every last one of those Jedi that died at Malachor' they deserved it."   
  
"You say that like it should hurt me. It doesn't. I mean it. I've had my share of nightmares about Malachor."   
  
"That's because you're just like them. I said it before and I'll say it again: Jedi lie. They manipulate. They wear bold faces and hide behind masks of charity and kindness, but deep down, they're just as rotten as the rest of the galaxy. You can drag that festering quality out, if you know how...you can show it for what it really is."   
  
She ashed her smoke again and blinked. "Oh? Do tell."   
  
"The rest of us...we don't need Jedi arrogance or hypocrisy anymore. The galaxy burns while Jedi and Sith squabble over who's right and who's wrong."   
  
"Look in the mirror, my anarchistic friend: You speak of hypocrisy, yet it rolls off your very being like wax from a candle."   
  
"Don't you try coming across all sagely and proverbial to me, Surik: At least the Sith are honest about why they kill: Passion, strength, freedom. Jedi...Jedi are cowards. The ones that aren't are the first ones to pick up a lightsaber and spill some blood when the occasion calls for it. Yeah, even you. You're sitting on the other side of this table looking all cool and collected, but I know that if the enemy burst through the door right now, you'd unleash a bloody slaughter on them without a second thought."   
  
Meetra opened her mouth to retort, but Atton didn't stop.   
  
"So we have the cowards, and the ones that crave death. The ones that try and save you, those ones are the worst: They do it only so you can suffer more."   
  
"It sounds as though you're speaking from personal experience." She observed quietly.   
  
"Whatever." He taunted. "I don't even know why I bother with you anyway. Just drop the subject."   
  
"You're the one with your ass still planted firmly on the seat." She pointed out. "If you were going to storm off, you would have by now. Something is keeping you here, can you please just tell me what?"   
  
"Honestly, I'd rather just tell you to take a walk out of the airlock."   
  
She smiled humourlessly and butted out her smoke. "Well now you're just being absurdly rude. I'm not willing to compromise on this, Atton, if not for the safety of myself and everyone else on the Hawk, but for my own rather base inclination to get to know you better."   
  
"You don't want to get to know me better."   
  
"Oh, there's that self-loathing that's been dwelling just under the surface. Come on. Tell us why, then."   
  
"Because I'm a deserter."   
  
"You served in the wars? I thought you might have. You may be crap at taking orders, but you behave like a soldier during a fight. Which war?" Now she was getting somewhere.   
  
"Both. Before Revan, after Revan, after Revan fell: I was there for all of it. I never served under you though."   
  
"Yeah I think I would have remembered a smart mouthed troop like you. You would have spent all your time on lavatory duty." She flashed him a grin to keep the conversation light.   
  
"Yeah, well after you were gone and Revan turned on the Jedi, it was easy to find reasons to keep tagging along with him: You get it. You remember how easy it was to hate the Jedi that just sat around in their academies and enclaves, growing old and debating the situation while people died everywhere across the galaxy."   
  
"Oh yes," She assured him. "Quite readily. In case you haven't noticed, the two Jedi we've ran into so far aren't my biggest fans, nor I theirs."   
  
"Once Malachor was over and the upheaval caused by your departure to Coruscant settled, I was right there with the rest who decided to side with Revan."   
  
She mulled the implication over in her head; she remembered the last time she saw Revan and Alek after Malachor: It was not a happy memory and one that made her pity the foolish man that sat in front of her now. She almost congratulated him for his choice of words. Upheaval was certainly an apt description of the chaos she left behind.   
  
"Revan had it right from the very beginning. If it wasn't for him, and for you and all the other Jedi who joined the cause, we'd all be speaking Mando'a right now and wearing chains around our wrists. How do you just do away with loyalty to someone who had the balls to do something so bold, and in turn, saved us all? You don't. We were loyal to Revan, not the Republic and we knew friend from foe: We were loyal to the Jedi who joined our cause before the end of the war, not the ones who hid in their council chambers. It wasn't long before Sith teachings started being leaked through the ranks. It started small: Revan was a master of propaganda. He was able to get you thinking a certain way by serving a certain kind of dinner in the mess hall at night. He was that good."   
  
"Trust me, I'm quite familiar with Revan's methods, having come up with many of them myself." She was beginning to realize that although she was exiled by the time all of this occurred, she had just as much a hand in it as she would have if she were actually present for all of it: She wasn't the only one who learned things from the friendship she and Revan shared.   
  
"Before long, those same Jedi who wouldn't lift a finger against the Mandalorian threat were all switching on lightsabers to come after Revan: Like I said, it all comes down to religion. The Mandalorians only wanted to conquer' nothing they did was rooted in the teachings of Jedi or Sith, so they Jedi dismissed the bloodshed they wrought as something underneath them. But as soon as the council realized Revan had fallen, they didn't waste a minute trying to put an end to him. Go figure.' He smiled ironically and wet his throat with some coffee.   
  
"And what did you do, Atton?"   
  
"I fought back."   
  
"I see."' Her eyes fell to the brushed durasteel surface of the table and lingered there.   
  
"Do you still want me to go on, doll? Remember, you're the one who asked."   
  
"Of course." She said, lifting her eyes in a hurry. "I just...I mean, honestly Atton, you seem way better suited to being a speeder-thief than someone who fights Jedi." She laughed weakly.   
  
"Nailed it, Surik. That's why I was so good at it. That's why I didn't fight them...I killed them."   
  
So there it was, the truth of the matter. He killed Jedi under Revan. She felt less shock at this, and more at the road that this story was beginning to go down. She already knew what his skill set consisted of and what it was used for' hell, she started the idea and placed it in Revan's hands for safekeeping.   
  
"It's not hard killing Jedi." He continued. "People make it out to be a lofty goal, but it's easy if you're smart about it." She almost wished he'd shut up now, not out of sorrow for the Jedi she was now sure died horrible deaths by his hand, but for the memories he was dragging up out of her own head about her own disregard for life. He spoke about his talent for killing as she would have once bragged about it over drinks on her ship.   
  
She shivered where she sat as he spoke in detail about all the little tricks he'd use to catch Jedi and break them. Her own face was reflected in his as her mind travelled to far away places and to the blood that ran off her hands the same way it had run off his the night before. She didn't need this explanation: She already knew what it felt like. She knew the rush of bending a prisoner to your will and toying with them until they gave you everything and all they had left was their life, and it was in your hands. She was aware of the primal fear she struck into her enemies when they caught glimpse of the string of white knuckle bones hanging over her shoulder just before she added their own to her collection.   
  
Overwhelming compassion swelled within her; she had no idea how truly similar they were until now.   
  
"How did you get close enough to them to do all of this?"   
  
He laughed, but it wasn't a happy or light laugh. "I played into it; Jedi have a hard time seeing through walls of strong feelings and emotions. Lust, fear, anger, euphoria: You keep those things at the forefront of your mind, and sometimes, a Jedi won't even be able to sense your presence. I was good at that sort of thing, and the people around me knew it too. Eventually, it became clear to Revan that the only way this civil war would be won was if he had the most and the strongest Jedi on his side' those he couldn't turn, he would kill."   
  
Meetra sighed and ran a hand through her hair before lighting another cigarra: She was feeling in the mood to chain-smoke.   
  
"And so he put together specially trained assassination teams, right? You were one of them?"   
  
"Yup. I guess I have you to thank for that. You mentioned the other night that it was originally your idea."

"It was." She admitted dryly, wishing for the chance to go back in time and give herself a good thrashing.  
  
"The difference was that Revan didn't want us to just kill the Jedi. He wanted us to capture them first and try and turn them. Never knew why' that part wasn't included in the training manual, but I think he thought it was important for those captured Jedi to see his side of things."  
  
"Revan never did anything without a distinct purpose behind it." Meetra agreed. "I can't help but wonder what his motivations were."  
  
"Hell if I care." Atton snorted into his coffee. "One day I just decided I was done and came here, to Nar Shaddaa...bummed around for awhile and then got good work stealing speeders. Privateer life suits me better anyway."  
  
"That wasn't so bad." She said. "Honestly, you're the person you are now, and not who you were then. If I had learned nothing from my decisions during the war, we wouldn't be here today, as I'm sure the same goes for you."  
  
"The kid knows." He said suddenly. "I was gonna bail out on you last night for good, and I went back to the Hawk to get some of my things. He told me you asked him to look into any records about me during the wars." He was staring at her now, his eyes all seriousness as he waited for an answer.  
  
"I did ask him to do that." She admitted. "Just...then I wasn't sure if I could trust you, and you'll have to forgive me for it, but I had to know."  
  
"Well you might have to diffuse a bit of tension if you decide to bring me back on the ship with you: He told me not to come back."  
  
She passed the smoke to Atton and smiled a little. "Just leave it to me. For the record, I'm really glad that I heard it all from you, rather than him."  
  
"I don't know why, but I believe you." Was all he said, returning to his coffee and looking a little bemused.  
  
"There's only one thing that I still don't understand."  
  
"Yeah? What's that?"  
  
"Why did you leave? It sounded like you were good at what you did, and you had stability. It strikes me as odd that one day you would just pick up and leave for no reason."  
  
"Look, I've already told you this much already. Wouldn't you rather wait and you know...let it sink in or something?"  
  
"It's already sunk in. It isn't hard for me to wrap my head around the fact that you served under Revan and killed Jedi. You hate them, I can tell. We appear to share some common ground, as far as our rather unpleasant talents for hurting people go, and we're both defectors, though perhaps not in the same ways: You defect from wars, and I defect from people. Honestly, this is not something to write home about. I'm more interested in what made you decided to be a speeder-thief when you likely could have climbed the rankings to Commander if you'd stayed put for a couple more years."  
  
He glanced around nervously before wiping his hand across his stubbled jaw.  
  
"Let's go back to the apartment. I'd rather not talk about it here."  



	29. Chapter 29

She lowered her datapad and stared out at the stars. She didn't have time for Gordo and his riddles right now.   
  
She didn't give a frack what you could sustain with food and starve with water. She felt annoyed and infringed upon; he knew what stress she was under, what with the war coming to a close. He knew how exhausted and madly driven she was in her fever to be the one to end it. How selfish of him to think she wanted to do riddles with him right now.   
  
Everyone else seemed to think she'd lost it... gone off the deep end. Jil had left not a month earlier and her desertion had caused somewhat of an uprising within the ranks that Meetra found herself spending valuable time diffusing. Alek had become more trying by the day, and everything seemed to be slipping out of her control.   
  
All she had left now was Revan. Revan and herself, and the stubborn conviction that dwelled somewhere deep in her breast; a burning notion that by being the one to end it, she would feel better about herself. Perhaps once it was all over the unmistakeable feeling of rot would subside from her core and she could once again take solace in life. Force knew that the Meetra that stood on the bridge of her flag-ship now was not the same Meetra who had bright-eyed and spirited sprang up the loading ramp on the day she took command of this vessel.   
  
No, this Meetra was worn and tested like an aged leather boot that although still sturdy and capable, sunk in on itself with folds and pocks all over its once smooth surface. Day by day she found herself more deeply mired in a sticky tar of self-loathing and doubt... things that she knew were surely the first steps down the path of the dark side, and yet she couldn't escape this sickly place inside of her that latched itself onto every activity she did, simply because she was fully aware that she had done it to herself. She had put herself in this place, and the only thing that may just possibly get her out was this plan. This weapon. This sacrifice.   
  
Yes, yes, this would do. Revan certainly didn't need much convincing. Alek only fumed because he knew she had stolen the data-files from him to begin with, but complaining about it would make him seem weak, and the republic itself was all for finally ending this bloody war. Perhaps she had skated over a few details in the briefing... but the war needed to be won, so here she was to do it.   
  
The battle over Malachor V was going poorly, as she had assumed it would. The Mandalorians had them at a disadvantage, with both herself and Revan not yet directly involved in this particular skirmish, there was little ground being gained by republic forces, both on the ground and in orbit. Her own ship hung a safe distance back, and Revan had yet to arrive: It was he who would lead the final push and if all went according to plan, bring down Mandalore himself.   
  
Alek was stationed on Revan's flag-ship, poised to assume command when their leader made contact and went into battle. A dark part of Meetra had hoped it would be her, but she knew that her current station would be the one that would bring glory, not Alek's.   
  
These words do not belong to someone of the Jedi Order, they belong to someone hanging very precariously on the edge of a dark precipice.   
  
Ha. Not like I have anything left to lose at this point. Be brave, Surik. You know this is the right thing to do.   
  
"General?"   
  
She turned her head and looked down at the source of the voice. Lieutenant Criggs was standing to her left, his fingers pressed to his forehead in the familiar salute she had seen so many times.   
  
"Yes Lieutenant, you have an update for me?"   
  
"We have received word that all systems are fully operational on the surface: All that remains is for you to give the word."   
  
"Very good, Lieutenant." She said, returning her gaze to her friends that glimmered in the sky so far away.   
  
"Begging your pardon, General. You know I'm not one to question orders from the top but... I can't help but wonder... are you prepared to do this?"   
  
"Prepared." She repeated the word and let it hang quietly in the air of the bridge for a moment as she stared at the battle that unfolded below her. "Are we ever really prepared for the lengths we are called to go to in order to fulfill our duties, Lieutenant? Do we dream as children that we may be destroyers of worlds and that we may one day feel pride in the feel of another man's blood coursing over our flesh in the heat of battle? Do our mothers and fathers hope for us to one day know the sensation of drawing a cool, metal blade over the throat of another person as he struggles at our feet?" She toyed with the smooth string of bones in her hair, fingering the joints of the men she had caught and conquered and punished for their crimes. The scent of frangipani flowers hung in the air around her and filled her nose with their placid and warming scent. "The Force works mysteriously, my friend... it moves us, moves within us, and moves through us... we are only servants to its bidding... to answer your question, there is no doubt in my mind that I was born prepared for this."   
  
Criggs stood in silent thought for a moment.   
  
"Will we... be able to get all of our men out of there before this place goes hot?"   
  
She turned to look at him again and blinked serenely before smiling kindly.   
  
"Yes." She lied.   
  
She sensed relief flood off of him, and she knew that her talent for manipulation had fooled just one more person she cared about.   
  
"What's the estimated time till deployment, General?"   
  
"I have yet to hear from Revan... but presumably once he faces Mandalore and is safely away from the planet... with the remaining troops behind, of course." She assured him. "I would say just over an hour. I don't doubt that Revan will be able to send Mandalore to his death in a short span of time."   
  
"Very good then." Criggs soluted once more and strolled away. Meetra smiled to herself; mindless obedience was such a useful tool.   
  
She brought her comlink up to her mouth. "Revan. Meetra here... wondering where you're at."   
  
"My shuttle just arrived. I am about to depart for the surface now. Is everything ready at your end?"   
  
"Of course."   
  
Silence for a moment, and then, "I swear Meetra, if you're thinking to blow that planet up with me on it, think twice."   
  
"Getting paranoid, fearless leader?" She chuckled into the comm. "I guarantee your safety." She promised. "Today we will bring safety and prosperity back to all those who await us."   
  
"Even those who await us with chains?" Revan's comm crackled briefly and cut out.   
  
The time between his last words seemed to stretch on endlessly. She paced the bridge of her cruiser and ignored a few more messages from Gordo, glancing every few moments out to the battle that she felt so far away from: Every fibre of her being pulled her to that place. Every molecule of her body longed to be on the surface of the planet, leading a platoon, standing on the front-line bellowing orders and coordinating strategy while blaster fire rained around her and the chaos made both friend and foe equal... she was not keen to sit idly around and assess things and give orders through a speaker. It felt like cheating unless there was blood on her hands and in her mouth. She passed the time playing pazaak on her datapad, counting the soldiers on the bridge who had beards, singing a few songs in her head, thinking of the drink she would love to have when all of this was over, pursuing small talk with the men who surrounded her, exchanging pleasantries and formalities, wondering if her team had caught Jil yet, wondering what Alek was doing at this precise moment...   
  
Her mind rang with impatience and she nearly leapt out of her boots when her comm crackled to life once more.   
  
"Revan?"   
  
"It is done." He panted into the speaker. "Mandalore lays slain, and his mask is mine. I am en route to your ship. Triangulate my coordinates and once I am free of the blast zone, give the order."   
  
She turned to her helmsman. "You heard the man, get a lock on that shuttle." She returned to her comm. "See you shortly."   
  
"I've got it locked, General. You'll be safe to give the order in six thousand thirty two meters."   
  
Criggs was at her side in an instant. "Wait! What about the rest of our men?! You can't just leave them ignorant down there!"   
  
Unblinking, un-human, she stared into the eyes of her Lieutenant. "There is no time." She explained. "If we have them all disperse now; even the ones in orbit, it will alert the enemy to our intent. We cannot falter now, Lieutenant."   
  
"You'll kill everyone!" He blustered.   
  
"You asked if I was prepared for this, Lieutenant... I can see now that I should have asked the question of you." She said calmly, fingering the shattered lightsaber crystals in her hair; crystals that belonged to the Jedi who had served under her and died for their cause. The heady scent of frangipani was almost overpowering now, as sweat humidified the air around her head. "We learn nothing from peace and much must be risked in war."   
  
"Four thousand meters."   
  
"Yes, of course... but this. This is madness... surely you see that. Not only are there Mandalorians on that planet, there are both republic soldiers and Jedi as well. It doesn't add up: The loss on our side is incongruent to the enemy's. Mandalore is gone now... let them crawl away like the dogs they are."   
  
She shook her head in a controlled manner.   
  
"You don't understand, Criggs... where one Mandalore falls, another will rise. Revan has taken his mask, making it difficult for a new leader to rise among them, but unless we scatter and destroy as many as we can, they will re-assemble. This war needs to be ended... there is a call for it throughout the republic, and this is unfortunately the way to go about it."   
  
"You can't do this. I can't believe that you of all people would do this."   
  
"Wouldn't you?" She replied, resting her hand on the hilt of her lightsaber. "Not when you've stood by and watched me torture numerous captives, purely for the justice I managed to reave from their screams? Not when I was the first to charge headlong into battle and spilled the first blood? You doubt my capability when you were the one who followed me from the day I was appointed rank and selected you personally as my right hand man?" She stooped slightly to be at Crigg's level, for she was very tall for a woman. "Ambition is poison, Criggs. Do not make me have you... subdued."   
  
"Two thousand meters."   
  
"Don't!" He cried, reaching out for her comm. She swept his futile gesture aside easily and threw him away with the Force, although gently enough to not hurt him.   
  
"Leave it, Lieutenant." She snarled. "Now is not the time for insubordination." Her attention was torn away from Criggs when the doors to the bridge flew open and Alek strode through them, his blue eyes wide and concerned.   
  
"Wait!" He called, flinging a hand out, pushing Meetra with the Force. She set her teeth and aligned her energy, resisting and digging the soles of her boots into the floor.   
  
"One thousand meters!"   
  
"Don't do this." He said, stepping slowly closer to her, still trying to weigh against her with an unseen wall.   
  
"I have to." She ground out, thrusting both palms before her to counter his pressure.   
  
"Five hundred meters!"   
  
Criggs made another dive at her, and she flung him away with her right hand, much more savagely this time.   
  
"I will have you killed if you don't stand back!" She promised. "Do not make me do it myself! Stand back, soldier!"   
  
"One hundred meters!"   
  
"Meetra don't you see how mad this is?" Alek begged, sorrow shining in his clear eyes. "Please... just stop now."   
  
"Madness?" She said, still deflecting the pressure he was trying to surround her with. "Take credit where credit is due, you drove me to this. It was your idea, Alek, don't be shy." She glanced around the bridge with fire in her eyes. "That's right. All of you did!" She bellowed, her voice ringing harshly around the room. "All of you! It's all your fault. Not mine!"   
  
"Revan has reached the safe zone."   
  
She felt her eyes fall endlessly into Alek's and their calm blue eternity.   
  
"I will stop you Meetra. If you give that order, I will ensure this ship falls into orbit and certain death for us both."   
  
Slowly, defiantly she raised the comm to her lips and spoke. "Commence."   
  
Chaos erupted around her. Crew members did their duty, an affirmative came to her through the comm, and her eyes stayed locked on Alek's.   
  
The ship jerked hard to the left when he directed his gaze to the helmsman and clenched his fist tight in the air. The man's eyes bulged and his hand's clawed at his throat.   
  
Meetra only laughed madly, taking advantage of her newly found freedom and igniting her lightsaber. She laughed and laughed and laughed until her belly hurt: There was nothing any of them could do. Alek could strangle the captain and kill them all if he wanted to, but her order had been given, and the Mass Shadow Generator was already fulfilling its purpose.   
  
"This isn't what I wanted!" He snarled as the helmsman finally slumped dead in his seat and the ship took a sharp downwards jolt. "I never wanted this!"   
  
"You can't always get what you want." She hissed, lifting her lightsaber to a combative stance and grasping a railing for balance. "Are you brave enough to die here with us all, friend? I hate you. I loathe you. I despise you and you have no idea how good it feels to finally speak these words. You can fake it for the news... but I'm onto you, Alek, I'm onto you! I'm onto you!"   
  
He ignited his own lightsaber and took a threatening step forward, "I have no time for the words of a madwoman. If we are to die tonight, let us end this now."   
  
She urged herself another step closer, using the railing for balance. She swung at him with her saber and missed, suddenly finding herself on her knees. The weapon clattered away from her hand, as she fell to her knees.   
  
She looked up and saw Criggs, circling them with his blaster drawn, aimed at her. She saw her dead captain hunched in his seat, she saw the bright nebulous light from the explosion and she felt heat, hotter than the suns of Tattooine tear through her as she crouched on the floor.   
  
Her head pounded and the sound of thousands of screams met her ears all at once, blotting out any sound she would hear from then on: Her own doing... the ultimate betrayal. She felt herself collapse to her stomach, her arms wrapped around her gut as her body wracked and shook and terror sang it's tremulous and guttural melody from her throat: A sound she could hear through the Force, rather than her deafened ears, a sound so forlorn and furious that it felt as though her very soul was being torn asunder.   
  
Please... please make it stop.   
  
She felt herself vomit, and she felt the uncomfortable sensation of the right side of her face resting in the contents of her stomach as she writhed on the floor and drenched herself and her glorious mane in shame and fear.   
  
She howled for hours it seemed as she tumbled down, down, down into an endless world of volcanic rock and magma. It made no difference if her eyes were open or shut: Where she was, everything was dead and burning. She fell endlessly as she lay in her own sick, abandoned on the sinking bridge of her ship.   
  
Death.   
  
Murder.   
  
It was everywhere.   
  
It raced through her veins and claimed her as its territory and she was sick again, helpless and alone.   
  
"Help..." She hacked. "Help..."   
  
The Force answered her pleas just then; everything went dead silent for the first time in her entire life.   



	30. Chapter 30

The smell of burnt hair hung in the bathroom of the small quarters she awoke in. She wasn't entirely sure where she was, but she suspected it was Revan's flag-ship for it was certainly not her own room that she was occupying currently.   
  
This room was small, and though not unpleasant or prison-like in any way, it could not be a more confining or horror-filled place. She had no measure of the time that had passed since her fit aboard the bridge and the blackness that had taken her… hours may have passed, maybe days. She didn't dare leave the humble quarters because she couldn't tell what lay beyond the door unless she bothered to open it. That part of her was gone.   
  
What was once so simple a habit as breathing was now an impossibility she realized after laying in her cot for nearly an hour with the covers bunched around her chest, trying to place the distinct sensation that something was missing. Her head ached painfully from the moment she woke, and her brain felt slow and bogged down and thick.   
  
As she stood in the bathroom now staring at her sunken face, she couldn't believe it had taken her so long to realize what was missing: The Force.   
  
It was just… gone: Her connection to it, the swirls and auras that she once gleaned so much from were no longer there, leaving the visual aspect of her surroundings to be bland and colourless. The lack of connection also explained her muddy, slow feeling mind and inability to sense her surroundings. That ever present tingle of energy she felt in her fingertips was dead and gone, leaving behind only the dull thrum of blood flowing through the pads of her fingers and the frightening silence of the room had driven her to tears not long after she had realized what had become of her… how damaged she truly was.   
  
So now the scent of burning hair filled her nose, and the shower had been running behind her for over an hour only for the white noise it provided her utterly empty ears.   
  
Whoever had placed her here had not disarmed her, nor disrobed her. Everything she had on her when she collapsed on the bridge sat on the bedside table next to her when she woke, including her lightsaber, datapad, and a small utility knife.   
  
Her dreadlocks lay in brown piles on the floor around her feet, some still smoked slightly, and all of them looked like thick, dark serpents waiting to sink venomous fangs into her ankles, and scattered throughout them were the mementos she had collected during the war; flower petals and stalks of grass, crystals and stones, feathers and bones, both animal and human. Her initial intent upon entering the bathroom with her lightsaber had not been to shear away these things, but her very identity. She sang the word "coward" as her hand faltered from its original course and with the clean stroke that would have killed her, she burned her hair away from her head.   
  
Now she stared at the face of a stranger in the mirror.   
  
This woman was unknown to her. This was not Meetra Surik. This woman was no one. This woman had no name and no future.   
  
She watched the stranger's eyes brim with tears and become bloodshot. Her chin trembled and she wanted nothing more than to smack this fool woman and tell her to stop this childishness, but she could not. No rebuke came, apart from the withering sob that fell from the lips of the woman in the mirror.   
  
She turned the sink on and doused the misshapen and frayed mop of hair that sat on her head until it was soaking. She left the sink running and trudged out to the main room, lifting the knife off of the bedside table. She played with the blade in her fingertips for a moment before musing that if she couldn't do the job with the lightsaber, perhaps this would do the trick.   
  
She held the blade flat against the palm of her wrist as she returned to the bathroom, knowing she would not possess the bravery to kill herself regardless of the tools she had available to her. Instead she lathered a rich layer of shampoo in her hair and set about dragging the razor sharp blade of the knife over her scalp, inch by inch cutting away what remained of her once majestic hair until all that was left was roughly cut stubble and streams of blood running down her hands and forehead from where the blade had caught and torn the soft skin of her skull. She flicked her hand at the sink and a few sodden chunks of hair went flying into it, accompanied by a few flecks of blood that clung to the sides of the metal basin as she rinsed her fingers in the cool running water.   
  
She finished her task and evened out the prickly stubble as best she could before setting the knife aside and rinsing her face and head once more before shutting the water off. She turned her gaze again to the woman in the mirror who was now bald-headed and stranger looking than ever with her hollow eyes and gashed scalp. She tried to associate her image to some sort of familiarity, but found herself unable to form any connection to this person: This person with no name and no future.   
  
She inhaled deeply, flexing her diaphragm in a futile effort to prevent another sob from escaping her mouth. She bent her knees and set about collecting the fragmented and disordered pieces of her old life from the pile of dead cells around her feet.   
  
…This yellow lightsaber crystal belonged to Nahhl'i Atah. He was killed in a mine field during one of the first battles I lead… his crystal was my first…   
  
…This green one belonged to a Jedi whose name I don't remember because she was killed by a Mandalorian strike team the day she joined my platoon…   
  
…This blue one… this one belonged to Elora Vassek, the Jedi Knight that had been brutalized by a Mandalorian camp on Dxun…   
  
She picked through the remnants and was left with a handful of a dozen crystals that all once hummed in the lightsabers of the Jedi that had served under her and died. She recited in her mind all the names of those they belonged to as she held them up to the light one by one to examine them: Twelve crystals sat in her palm… they symbolized twelve lives that had been sacrificed for the war… twelve Jedi that had died for her. Humourlessly she reflected on how many crystals she would have to see to make an accurate count now, after her deeds above Malachor V.   
  
She continued to sift through the ashes, tossing aside burned frangipani blooms and feathers. Her hand paused when she pushed aside a dreadlock and gleaming white bone met her eyes. Her stomach lurched and she suddenly felt quite sick: Here was physical proof of the cruelty she had become so skilled at and desensitized to. Her fingertips closed around the end of the string of bones that were once a point of pride and she lifted them up to dangle in front of her face and felt nothing but horror and revulsion at the macabre chain that swung slowly back and forth in her line of sight.   
  
Had I fallen? Had I become a dark Jedi like I always feared? Had I fallen without even noticing? How many knuckle bones would I have bound in my hair after Malachor V, if things hadn't gone the way they had?   
  
With a shriek, she collapsed to the floor and flung the string of bones against the wall where they broke free from their bonds and clattered all around the floor and counter. She held her face in her hands and cried in earnest for the second time since she woke up, the weight of her choices and the consequences borne of them crushing her from every angle as she struggled to breathe between sobs. She wailed with clenched fists in the silence that drowned her and tears rolled down her face and stung her eyes as she begged the silence over and over, "Why?!" She tugged at her hair, but her grasping fingers only glanced off the smooth skin of her head so with a sharp thrust backwards with her elbow, she shattered the glass of the shower door she had been leaning on. It gave way with a cacophonous sound that made her heart skip a frantic beat, and she was showered with shards of glass and water as she fell backwards into the hot water and steam that billowed freely from its shattered cage.   
  
Water flooded her mouth and nose, causing her to cough and splutter in her hysteria, but she didn't move an inch from the jagged glass that was machete-ing its way into the skin of her back, nor did she struggle against the torrent of water that was drenching her from the waist up. She rocked from side to side, shards of glass scraped and scratched against the floor under her as she wept in her shame.   
  
She didn't have any measure of how long she spent under the water, but it was ample time to reflect on all of her failings: The remorse she felt was compounded over and over by realizations and acknowledgements of the crimes she had committed, and she wondered if she would ever be able to stand up again and become dry.   
  
The time came eventually when her sobs faded away to a shallow and hurried panting, and her throat loosened, and her eyes stopped leaking. She dragged a hand over her newly bare head and closed her eyes as water fell around her.   
  
This was madness. Everything in her life could be defined by that word. Her relationship with Alek and Revan: Madness. Her decision at Malachor V: Madness. Her selfish feelings towards Gordo Wils: Madness. The bones: Madness. Jil: Madness. The war itself: Madness... her own selfish ambition: Madness.   
  
I was a fool to have even left Dantooine. I was a fool to think that I should be trusted with such power.   
  
She sighed tremulously and pulled herself up, instinctively pushing back the hair that was no longer there.   
  
"I can't stay here." She said to the silence that she was becoming more accustomed to by the minute.   
  
A low chiming sound alerted her to someone's presence at the door. She never had any use for door chimes before: A week earlier she would have known exactly who was waiting for her and what they wanted before getting anywhere near the door. Now she was scrambling to her feet and turning off the shower, wrapping a towel around her drenched robes and tip-toeing to the door to gaze at the console next to it that revealed who stood in the hallway: It was Revan. He wasn't wearing his lavish robes and his face was unmasked and etched with concern.   
  
She shuddered and took a step back, her eyes darting around the room in search of a place to hide like the child she knew she was.   
  
"Meetra, I know you're in there." His sardonic voice came over the speaker as he pressed the comm. button outside the door. "Open the door… I came alone."   
  
Of course he would know she was in the room… He put her there. He could probably sense her too. Stupid of me… so stupid to try and hide.   
  
Resigned, she opened the door and allowed Revan to glimpse her, bald, dripping wet, bloody and wrapped in a towel.   
  
"What?" Was all she murmured after a moment when she could not bear to hold his gaze any longer for the shame she felt.   
  
"Well can I come in?"   
  
"I suppose." She stepped aside and let him cross the threshold. She closed the door and turned to face him, although she continued to stare at the carpet. "Are you here to kill me?"   
  
"No." His answer was short and simple as always.   
  
That's a pity. I'd rather hoped someone would do it for me.   
  
"Sit." Another short sentence and she heard him cross the room and take a seat in one of the two arm chairs in the room. She obeyed without question; all the fight was gone from her and she laid herself bare to her fate.   
  
"You don't look so good." He observed as she stared at his boots, shivering in the towel she clenched tightly around her shoulders.   
  
"I don't feel so good." She admitted quietly, feeling her eyes fill with tears again. No, not in front of him… not in front of Revan. She blinked the tears back furiously.   
  
"Your hair…?"   
  
"Is the least of my concerns." She whispered in her broken voice. "You always thought it was stupid anyway."   
  
"Meetra…" He said, an uncharacteristic softness filled his voice, and it caused her raise her eyes to his. His narrow face was pressed in an expression of compassion and sorrow. His intelligent brown eyes searched her pitiful form and she didn't need the Force to know the love that he had for her and the sorrow that he carried for her circumstance. She loved him too: She loved his keen intellect and his way with words… his dark brown hair that grew in waves to rest around his shoulders… his rich, masculine baritone, his skill with a lightsaber and the passion for learning and reading that he had passed onto her over the years: In many ways she still felt like the gawky twelve year old girl from years before, willing herself to speak to the padawan she had admired from a distance for so long.   
  
"What?" She finally said, staring now at her hands.   
  
"Something has happened to you…"   
  
"Alert the press." She retorted instinctively: Apparently her capacity for wit had not been lost with the Force. "I had no idea." She said bitterly.   
  
"I'm not here to punish you." He assured her, the same unusual gentleness in his voice.   
  
"Then why?" Was all she could manage.   
  
"I wanted to make sure you're okay."   
  
"I'm not."   
  
"What have you done to yourself?"   
  
"I believe that is a question that has numerous answers… all of which would be correct."   
  
"You've lost your connection to the Force."   
  
"Thanks for reminding me, I had nearly forgotten."   
  
"Meetra, stop…"   
  
"No, don't call me that!" She snarled, starting and pounding her fist against the arm of the chair as fresh tears rolled down her cheeks.   
  
"But that is your name." He reminded her calmly. "Regardless of your deeds and the way you choose to style your hair, you were born Meetra Surik, and you will remain Meetra Surik until the day you die."   
  
She hid her eyes behind her hand and she leaned into the arm of the chair, fighting to maintain the composure she had fought for so hard in the shower: It was sliding away quickly.   
  
"What do I do now?" She asked both the silence and Revan. "What am I gonna do now?"   
  
"The war is over." He explained, and she felt his strong, warm hand wrap around her own. "There is nothing left for you to do."   
  
"Will we… will we go back… back home?" She asked as sobs once again punctuated her sentences and she peered at Revan between her fingers like a frightened child would seek comfort from a parent after a nightmare.   
  
"We have no home, Meetra." He crushed her with that soothing tone of his. "You are… you have seen your last day as a Jedi, and the last of war. I would have you take the opportunity to leave while you can, for in this short time, there have already been attempts on your life."   
  
"But where will I go?" She begged for an answer, a hint, anything. She knew though that Revan would not simply hand her an answer.   
  
"You must go where you feel is right." He replied plainly.   
  
"I don't feel anything." She argued. "I have no feelings… only emotions."   
  
"They are the same thing." He said staunchly. "With or without the Force, you can learn to follow them and they will serve you… but not here."   
  
"What about you?" She uttered, desperately not wanting to part from the only person who seemed to understand.   
  
"I will go my own way… with Alek."   
  
She knew then that the matter was settled.   
  
"I'll return to Coruscant." She said, removing her hand from her face and settling into her chair. "I will face the Council and answer for my crimes."   
  
"Not the decision I would make, but it is not for me to decide." Revan admitted. All she wanted to do was fling herself across the short distance between them and bury herself in his warmth. She longed already for the feeling of another… the connection to something. Anything. "I will have a shuttle made ready for you. Stay here until I send for you, and don't answer the door for anyone but myself: As I said, it's not safe for you here."   
  
"Why?" She blurted.   
  
"Why what?"   
  
"Why are you just letting me go? This is uncharacteristic for you."   
  
A curious smile lifted the corners of his lips, and the cunning in his eyes burned all the brighter when he spoke with his hand still around hers.   
  
"Because you are Meetra: You are a dear friend, and though you can no longer sense it, the fate that awaits you is not one that is aboard this ship with those who mean to kill you: You've done much for me, and I for you, and though I don't fully support your decision, you are no longer mine to command." He flashed he teeth at her briefly and stood, releasing her hand as he did so. "Ah… don't let any droids in." He added as an afterthought. "I sense someone is attempting to tamper with my HK creation in an attempt to seal your fate." He strode to the door, all maturity and masculinity. "Goodbye, Meetra."   
  
She didn't move from the armchair, but she turned his way and called out to him just before he breezed out of her life forever.   
  
"Revan…"   
  
"Yes?" He said patiently, pausing at the threshold, his hand resting on the doorframe.   
  
"I… I love you." She offered.   
  
He gave her that ever familiar penetrating stare of his; the one he had given her the very first time she had dared to ask to spend a meal with him on Dantooine when she was a bold and unflappable adolescent: It was that look that tore right through your very being.   
  
He spoke after a moment a dissenting smile on his face.   
  
"You don't know love, Meetra."   
  
And he left.   



	31. Chapter 31

I'm not really sure what to think right now: I've spent nearly two months getting to know this person, or at least thinking I have, and it seems that with every moment that passes I am reminded of how little I actually do know about Atton Rand, other than the image of him in my own mind that I have selectively woven from the threads he has chosen to give me, and the ones that I have taken by force.   
  
At first he was my necessary companion; we were both stuck on that mining facility and we needed to work with each other to escape. Then on Telos he became my pilot… he stuck around for some reason that both of us still appear to be unclear on.. On Dantooine he became my friend and dare I say, an object of my affection, and here on Nar Shaddaa, he became my lover. I mean it was just the one time… and only hours ago, but it was something that I sense has been waiting in the wings for some time now: I'm not too proud to admit that I have wanted this.   
  
I feel a most peculiar connection to this man and it goes back to the very beginning. It's not like I was ready to tussle when he commented on my lack of dress at Peragus, but… oh how would one say it? I find myself inescapably pre-disposed to enjoying his intriguing set of quirks. I am entirely honest with myself when I observe that although Atton is not the most loquacious, and eloquent individual, I seem to have a distinct inclination to hang onto every word he says. Why? I suppose because he lends me his valuable time to say them. He's a bit of an idiot; he waxes and wanes like a moon; sometimes I find myself wondering who this scholarly and resourceful creature is, and other times I see him glancing down the front of my shirt when I lace up my boots, and note that surely, he's no different from the rest: An intriguing man, but a man none the less. One controlled by emotions and desires and other more… physical anatomies. He speaks with vulgarity and a sort of facetious honesty though… I find it refreshing.   
  
I feel the rope moving: He has revealed more to me about his character in the past few hours than he has in the entire duration of our journey so far. I know things about him now that I had only suspected previously, and he told me these things of his own volition. I could wonder why.   
  
I do wonder why: Why me?   
  
I asked him that question and he didn't have an answer for me, yet somehow I have managed to partially crack that loud foundation that enrobes his mind… a mind that is such due to the training I now know he received under Revan. He trusts me even though days ago he told me I disgusted him. Obviously. I'm a Jedi. I'm a target to him. I'm prey. I may have picked the right side in the war to avoid the wrath of men such as Atton, but I know that such hatred leaves a stain that penetrates deeper than years as a speeder-thief are capable of purging completely.   
  
And yet…   
  
She glanced ever so cautiously sideways, disguising the slight tilt of her head as the subtle act of brushing her hair away from her face: He had hardly spoken since declaring that his tale of why he left the Sith was not fit for public discussion. She thought of ropes again and how they were beginning to move: She was not sure if they were loosening, or being pulled into a taut noose: It took so long to get this much from him… between arguments and dirty looks and accusations and all other kinds of childishness, it took the threat of Mical telling her everything to finally get him to spill. He didn't want to talk about it. He made that clear from the first time she started asking questions… now it seemed as though didn't want to stop talking until everything is out on the table.   
  
I'm ah… I'm kind of scared.   
  
A headache that she hadn't had in some time was trying to force its way back into her skull, and the vertigo was returning. She'd gotten so much better… her command over the Force had grown considerably since she first awoke feeling incomprehensibly ill on Peragus, much in part due to Mical and his meditation techniques. It was a little bit ironic as she remembered how forlorn she was at the silence that surrounded her when she lost the Force. She supposed over the years she just got so used to it that when the Force did return to her, she was utterly overwhelmed at its sensational symphony.   
  
She clenched her eyes shut for a moment, relieving them from the light and though this brought momentary relief from the sensations wracking her body and mind, her palms still felt sweaty and clammy when she finally clambered out of the speeder and followed Atton to his apartment for the second time.   
  
"Atton?" She asked, walking quickly to keep up with him.   
  
"Yeah?" He says without looking at her.   
  
"Are you okay?"   
  
"Haven't decided yet."   
  
Meetra pressed her lips together and came to a halt. "Would it be bold of me to say that I'm slightly concerned that what you're about to tell me is going to make me wish I had left you on Pergaus?"   
  
He surprises her when he laughs. "No. In fact it probably will." The words were disturbingly cryptic, but they were tempered by his casual air and the fact that he collected her with his arm around her shoulders so they could continue moving down the hall despite her stubbornness.   
  
His fingertips at the small of her back ushered her in the doorway, and once again she couldn't help but take note of his contrasting character; Atton Rand… the man who believes in ladies first (in more ways than one.) Atton Rand, the man who was not shy about taking ownership of flatulence when they shared the cockpit. Atton Rand, the man who hated vegetables and made no secret of it. Atton Rand, the man who could go toe-to-toe with her in a decent argument. Atton Rand, the man who saved her life only hours after she told him to his face that the notion of him being chivalrous was laughable: It was enough to make her want to pull her hair out and she nearly did when he finally pushed her onto the couch and he said, "I don't want to leave."   
  
"I figured that much out, thanks." Meetra said incredulously as he sort of fidgeted around in front of her uncomfortably.   
  
"Yeah, well I thought I'd make that bit clear before I say anything else, because I'll be really surprised if still want anything to do with me when we're done."   
  
"The suspense is killing me." She quipped dryly: He may be good at throwing up walls of emotion and nonsense, but I'm also fairly skilled at bluffing. He has no idea how sick I feel to my stomach, how afraid I am of what he has to say. I need to know and I need to know now. I want to shoot to my feet and scream at him to just get on with it.   
  
He cleared his throat and paced in front of her for a moment; she plasters a peaceful expression on her face just like she plasters everything else that is called for at any given moment: Smiles, frowns, looks of confusion… her eyes follow him calmly back and forth until he finally stops and tussles his hair with one hand.   
  
"How did they find you?"   
  
"Huh?"   
  
"The Order. How did they find you when you were young?"   
  
She tilted her head and appeared to be thinking quite hard for a moment.   
  
"I was good at catching things." She said finally. "Uncommonly good, or so I'm told. Jedi often look for traits in children such as that and an increased sense of spatial awareness was enough for them in my case."   
  
The next thing she knew, there was a lighter flying at her face from across the room and she lifted her hand and wrapped her fingers around it without more than a blink.   
  
"I like catching things." She continued. "I always thought that playing catch was one of the most relaxing things in life." She lobbed the lighter back at Atton who caught it and threw it back again. She did it again; reached out and closed her hand around the object's trajectory; the place where it would be. She felt hard plastic in her hands as she dragged the small item out of the air again effortlessly. "I didn't know it when I was small, but the Force was working through me. Curiously, I did always feel it, I just didn't know what it was."   
  
"You felt it?"   
  
She hummed softly. "Yeah… like for example if someone threw a ball or a toy at me, it was as if I could feel it in my hand before it was there and it felt like the palms of my hands were alive with some sort of magnetism that flung objects could not resist. People always seem to think that using the Force is like moving in slow motion or something silly like that. It's the opposite: When something was thrown at me, I felt a convergence of things around me happen rapidly in a short time. Everything seemed to be sucked into that one point in physical space where the object would best be put in my hand…. So I listened and put my hand at the point of the convergence, and always seemed to come away with something in it." She lit a smoke and threw the lighter back again. Atton did the same and they continued their game in silence for awhile: She allowed it. She had waited this long for him to tell her about his past, and she wasn't opposed to wasting away a few more minutes of frivolity in his presence.   
  
"You know I don't hold anything against you, right?" She said, ending the silence. "I don't hold your involvement with Revan against you at all."   
  
"Interesting."   
  
"What is?"   
  
"Nothing." He said, shaking his head and chucking the lighter at her once more. "Just was reminded about something someone once told me about Jedi and their capacity for forgiveness."   
  
She leaned forward and smirked a little. "Must I always remind you that I'm not a Jedi?"   
  
He stared at her from across the room for a moment, his hands in his pockets and a smoke in the corner of his mouth.   
  
"No." He said finally, as if he had just decided. "You're not."   
  
"Glad you see it that way. Now can you say what you dragged me here to say?"   
  
"I'd really rather not."   
  
"Atton," she said sharply. "This is ridiculous."   
  
"It's not." He shot back. "It's pathetic. I can't believe that I'm standing here trying to explain this to you of all people."   
  
"Why am I any different than anyone else?"   
  
"It's personal." He said shortly.   
  
"I got that impression." She said coolly.   
  
"Not just for me."   
  
It was only then that she realized exactly how tired he looked; not just physically tired, but a sort of from-the-core exhaustion weighed on his entire being. His eyes were dark and shadowed, and his face was pale. His hair was more rumpled than it normally was, due to his nervous habit of messing it about and she'd never seen such a thick layer of stubble on his jaw before: How did it take her so long to realize that this man was very near to the end of his rope?   
  
"You're speaking like a fool." She said, taking note of the slight twitch in his jaw at the mantle Kreia so often bequeathed on him. "You hide yourself inside your words."   
  
"I wouldn't be telling you any of this if I wasn't afraid of that stupid schutta telling you himself the second you board the Hawk." He reminded her.   
  
"Don't concern yourself with my heartstrings, Atton." She said, leaning back into the couch. "I'm fine. Be fine with it."   
  
She thought from where she sat she could see him tremble slightly; nothing more than a shudder that rolled from the ends of his arms up through his shoulders, ending in a slight jerk of the neck.   
  
"Is there anything to drink around here?"   
  
"It's your apartment." She said patiently, staring at her hands as he vacated her line of sight to seek out liquor.   
  
He returned with a cold glass of whiskey. She took it from his hand tasted it: It wasn't as expensive as the kind they had before, but it would do: It was something to occupy her hands with.   
  
"Sorry." He said. "For dragging you back here… I guess I just wanted to be somewhere quiet."   
  
Relating to Atton at this precise moment in time by keeping him at arm's length was not going to get her anywhere and she knew it. Now was the time for questions and plain truths: It was time for both of them to drop their falsified states and be who they truly were. Though the bearing she carried when she was near Atton was quite close to who she truly was, there was a wall of vices and deception and unwillingness to be honest with each other that could not entirely be blamed on him. It was at this point she was forced to decide if she trusted herself enough to grow close to him. Close enough at least to hear him out and possibly help him through this.   
  
"That's not what you wanted." She stated. "That's not what you came here for; this place just leaves you cold. You could have told me this in the speeder, or the cockpit, or a dozen other places." She swirled her drink around in the glass. "Nothing true of you will ever show if all you do is talk."   
  
She had spent years and years being someone else. Someone who didn't matter, someone who breezed along, someone who didn't care and now she felt the call of something much deeper than aloofness and deliberate obliviousness that allowed her to carefully pick around any emotional obligation to anyone else in the past.   
  
He said nothing at her words, only retreated with his own glass of whiskey and leaned against the wall opposite to her, sliding down it until he was at rest on the floor, his knees bent and his elbows resting on them.   
  
He was silent.   
  
She stared at him until he could no longer resist and his eyes came up to meet hers. She lifted her glass in the air and said, "Here's to you my love… let the day begin." She drank, though he did not, and she settled her eyes on him once more.   
  
Silence dominated the room, and though often she quite enjoyed the moments where she and him could exist in a comfortable sort of quiet, this silence was tense and awkward. It dragged on and on forever and she realized that he waging such a war in his own mind that he wouldn't speak until she said something first.   
  
"Do you feel alive?" She said, snapping the silence like a twig under her boot. She said nothing else, only waited for an answer that was a long time coming.   
  
"No."   
  
"Can you feel alive?"   
  
"I'm living like I knew what the hell I was looking for."   
  
"Atton…"   
  
He interrupted her, though he did it quietly.   
  
"Don't call me that. That isn't my name."   
  
Assuming she knew what she was doing, she re-worded something Revan had said to her years earlier.   
  
"You'll always be Atton. You were born Atton Rand and you'll be Atton Rand until the day you die." She said reassuringly.   
  
He turned his head and she could see him bite the inside of his cheek.   
  
"Nope." Was all he said.   
  
"Then who are you?"   
  
"I'm as sick as it gets." He said to his glass.   
  
"What am I supposed to do about it?" She said. "What could you possibly expect from me if all you can offer me are half-truths and one word answers?"   
  
"I don't expect anything." He said, taking a drink and jamming a smoke in the corner of his mouth. "I'm trapped."   
  
"How so?"   
  
"I could have happily gone through this whole mess without telling you any of this, and now I don't seem to have a choice." He said, waving his hands through the air. "I could have tagged along with you, and helped you, and kept you safe and got some sort of sense of peace from all of it while leaving you completely in the dark the whole time."   
  
"Why is it so important?" She asked, watching him struggle to spark the lighter. "Why fear what I think? You care little for what people think, why should I be any different? I am of course, only one more insane Jedi." She leaned forward again, her leather jacket creaking in the dead sounding room. "Nobody cares for your secrets. Nobody cares what you hide. What you choose to bury and store away and deny is what weighs you down… it's what burdens and poisons you from the inside out: Shame is the lie someone told you about yourself, Atton. How long will you choose to believe it?"   
  
After failing again and again to spark the lighter he screwed up his face and hucked the piece of plastic across the apartment, where it clattered off into the kitchen.   
  
"She's dead."   
  
Without words, she positioned her body in a way that unmistakeably asked, Who?   
  
He only glared at her, drink in hand, unlit cigarra still hanging out of his mouth and she felt the fine hairs on her body raise as an icy chill swept through her to the bone. It felt like a warning; a memo from the Force to pick up and get out while she still had the chance. She pushed the sensation aside and waited for an answer.   
  
"Jil."   
  
The name hung in the air, its single syllable seemed to stretch on forever as Meetra let her eyes wander across the spackled ceiling and she began to understand.   
  
"Did you even know her?" She asked finally, still staring at the ceiling.   
  
"No. Did you?" He shot the question back at her half accusingly, half curiously.   
  
She sighed and crossed her arms, still unable to bring her eyes back down. "Well enough." She said. "She was so kind, she had a wit like a sharp blade though. If you… care to know, the similarities between you two are remarkable." She finally made herself look at him again. "She is – was… your twin sister, right?"   
  
He must have finally realized that taking forever to say it wasn't going to make a difference in the end, because he nodded, eyes turned down to the ground.   
  
"Don't you remember anything of her? From before the Jedi took her?" She asked kindly.   
  
He shook his head. "She gave me love like a sister." He said and his voice was low and rough. "Meetra, I didn't know, and – "   
  
She flung her arm out to the side suddenly, pointing at the rainbow that was dancing on the wall behind him, made by the reflection of the sun off the rim of Atton's glass. "Have you ever seen such a beautiful thing?"   
  
"Don't you get it?!" He shouted, sitting up on his palms, splashing a good deal of whiskey across his lap, looking entirely out of touch. "I killed Jil. I killed my sister. I killed your… your…" He didn't seem capable of finding anymore words, so he downed the rest of his whiskey in one go before unceremoniously tossing the glass aside, where it rolled across the carpet and didn't stop as it transitioned onto the tile floor, filling the room with a hollow grinding sound until it came to rest. "Don't you care?" He whispered.   
  
Meetra couldn't lie; the thought had certainly crossed her mind initially, along with many others: Inclinations to hit him and dance on his corpse till he was paste. The desire to have him dead and tie his bones in her hair… oh yes, there was a part of her that wanted that, but it was overwhelmed by the displacement of her own feelings by his, and by the indisputable pity she felt and for the pain it caused her to see him so broken.   
  
"You are indeed lucky that words don't bleed." She said briskly.   
  
"You're crying." He pointed out. "I did that."   
  
She hadn't realized it before he mentioned it, but when she brought a hand up to her cheek, her fingers did indeed come away wet. She let her hand fall back to her lap and she took a deep, audibly shaky breath before standing up and walking away. "Do you want another drink?" She asked from the kitchen, bending to retrieve that glass he had tossed.   
  
"Yeah."   
  
She poured and she thought, allowing herself to take the time granted to her by this brief intermission to decide what she was going to do next. All he had revealed to her was that he had been the one to kill Jil, and this directly related with him leaving the Sith: There was more to this story yet.   
  
"She taught me how to play Pazaak, you know." She said quietly, giving him his drink and a lit cigarra. He looked at her with a sort of stunned gratitude as he took the items from her and she offered him a private tilt of her mouth before returning to the couch. "I thought it was the stupidest game in the galaxy until she managed to hoop me into learning it: She was the only one during the war who was bold enough to call me 'dumbass,' especially when I stood on a seventeen. I think the only reason I kept playing after she left was because it reminded me of her."   
  
Atton made a truly miserable face and started to say something, but stopped before a word could be formed, letting his forehead fall to his knee. His eyes gripped shut tightly, and the muscles in his jaw were clenched tight.   
  
"I wish I didn't have to tell you this." He said, his voice muffled. "I never wanted you to know."   
  
"And why's that?"   
  
"I've already told you: Because I don't want to leave. I don't think you care to know, but I don't want to leave you. But I also can't have you thinking I'm doing this for any reason other than the past."   
  
"So what now?" She asked him, staring into eyes she had stared into many times before she had ever even met him. "You must truly be a fool if you think I'm keen on banishing you from my life like I did Jil. Every pawn will pay its price, Atton: A part of you is ending, but still a part of you holds on. How long have you carried this? How long have you subjected yourself to this? How long were you planning on continuing to subject yourself to it?" She got to her feet and gestured through the air with her whiskey. "Look, you can't do that to yourself. I mean, for the love of the Force, life is not meant to be lived in such a way."   
  
He had not been expecting such a pro-active reaction from her; understanding maybe, possibly even compassionate, but here she was, talking about his shameful revelation as if it were another key point to her newest battle strategy.   
  
"I'm The General." She said, as if she had read his mind. "And I have sinned, I have murdered, I have lied for the benefit of vain glory. I fell as far as one could go, and I didn't even know it at the time, now I am here again, being pushed into fighting a war that this time holds no interest for me, but I am me: I am Meetra Surik. I am The Exile, and I care deeply for you, and you must believe that I will continue to walk this life until even my shadow has left me, but I will not walk it without you. We are not the righteous, people like you and I. Nor are we the innocent: We are a sign that somewhere along the line, everything went wrong."   
  
He reached over and seized her wrist, dragging her down to the carpet next to him. "No war-time speeches. Please." She quirked her lips a bit sadly and rested her hand on his knee. "I'd give you everything, but I'd still let you down." He resolved finally.   
  
"And you're the one who gets to decide that, hey?" She retorted. "You're the one who gets to define what is a failure in my own eyes? I choose, Atton." She rested her head on his shoulder and pushed her fingers between his, ignoring the nervous sweat that covered his palm. For reasons she could not quite explain, she felt quite level-headed, she felt like she knew exactly what she needed to do, and she felt like she was… shining. The time to grieve for Jil would come, and she would do it in her own time, but right now he needed her. Atton needed her and she found herself uncaring of anything that may come down the pipe next. "So you left because of her. Presumably because you killed her… I can't say I've ever been in your exact position, but I would imagine that something like that would make anyone think twice about what they're doing with their life."   
  
"I left because of what she told me before I took her life. In the short time that I knew her on Telos, she tore everything down." He must have felt Meetra's head shift at his words, because he added. "You were too late. You missed her by a day."   
  
"How did you find her?"   
  
"I didn't." He answered. "She found me. The minute her name came up in my briefing, I knew who she was, and I knew what was being asked of me. I still have no idea how she managed to find me when I could make myself next to invisible to Force users."   
  
"Throughout history twins have often been noted as having a bond that goes deeper even than the Force. Ever heard of the mad twin sisters on Coruscant? They were both passengers on a public transport and seemingly lost their minds at the exact same moment, resulting in a mental breakdown and subsequent killing spree that ended in the death of one twin and the institutionalization of the other. There are dozens of cases of twins living incredibly identical lives, despite having never met; on Naboo, a set of twins were separated at birth and lived in different cities their whole lives. They never met, they never knew the other existed. Yet somehow, both ended up marrying a woman with the same name, divorcing her, marrying again to a woman with the same name, and each having a child... that they named the same. The science of twins in and of itself is fascinating..." She ran a hand through her hair, twirling a frayed end around her finger. "I doubt that Jil needed to rely on the Force to find her brother. I don't know if that helps ease your mind in any way, but it is an interesting thing to think about." She offered him a weak smile. "Sorry... I got off topic and started to think out loud. What happened when she found you?"   
  
"It's hazy." He said, and Meetra couldn't be sure if he was lying of not. "She found me in a cantina, and I was already a dozen drinks into the night. Even then I knew that what I was sent to Telos for was not going to be easy. I was afraid. But then she... she made it so easy. She came to me like a bird would to a hand full of seed, and she perched herself at my table and bought us a round of drinks and told me that she loved me."   
  
"And what was your immediate first impression of her?" She asked, starting to feel more like a shrink than a friend.   
  
"Meetra, I don't want to – I don't wanna talk about it."   
  
She shrugged, though not as if to dismiss his objection, but to agree with it.   
  
"I'm not asking you to talk about it. I'm asking you to make a decision: By choosing not to talk about it, you're choosing to allow the Jedi-killer to live on with his fear and self-loathing. By choosing to acknowledge that you had a sister and that yes indeed you did something terrible to her, you can become capable of rising above this unsettling mantle of killer, and move onto bigger and better things. I'm not a Jedi." She added quickly when she saw his mouth open at her words. "However there is validity in their teachings that I would be an arrogant fool to overlook: We must learn to let go, Atton. Our past affects us, it shapes us and it creates foundations for the people we become, but it must not define us." He sat silently, so she forged on, knowing that he was taking in every word that she said. "Had I chosen to remain the nameless, Forceless, powerless entity I became after Malachor five, I would likely be dead by now. The Force does not define me; I do. Malachor five does not define me: I do. Revan and Alek do not define me: I do. I am still living and breathing and taking up space in the universe... what a poor use of it I would be if I sat on a rotting mountain of corpses and wept into my hands, denying myself a future."   
  
"Meetra – "   
  
"No. Listen." She rolled herself onto his lap, her hips straddling his own. She gripped the lapels of his jacket and pressed her forehead against his. "I didn't have anybody after Malachor. The council exiled me, in fact, my best friend before the war called for my death. Jil was lost, and Revan and Alek wanted nothing to do with a broken human like myself and I was left to crawl out of a dark pit of my own making with what devices I had left. You don't have to do that: You have people. You have me. Now just tell me, and tell me true; what of your encounter with Jil caused you to leave?"   
  
"Because she tried to save me." He said quietly; there was no call to speak loudly right now. His face was right in front of hers and she could smell the cigarras and whiskey on his breath and the sharp odour of his unclean body. "The ones who try to save you... they're the worst, and she was no exception to the rule. She tried to warn me, tried to tell me that I was next on Revan's list of detainees and victims, that I had to get out while I still could. I didn't want to listen. I didn't want to believe her."   
  
"You couldn't doubt her."   
  
"I could. And I did." He explained. "It was so... arrogant of her to just show up in my life and dump that on me. She had no business telling me what I needed to do, what was right for me. I was a stranger to her."   
  
"Something obviously changed your mind." She leaned back against his knees and tilted her head.   
  
"She knew she was gonna die. I think she knew before she even found me. She used herself against me, to break me. She broke every wall I had built up like it was cheap and brittle plastic until there was no way I could hide it, and no way I could deny it... I was just like her: Touched."   
  
Meetra had been fidgeting restlessly, and she was trying to relieve the prickly, numb sensation that was starting to set into her legs when Atton finished. She froze still immediately.   
  
"Touched." She repeated, lifting her hand up to her mouth and gnawing on the fingernail of her middle finger. "What, you mean like me? Like... touched like the Force, touched?"   
  
He only nodded once, slowly and Meetra clenched her shoulder blades together to stop the shudder that was threatening to creep up her spine. "Some say it runs in the family..." she muttered, staring at the carpet. "Of course that theory would hold even more water when there are twins involved but..." She stopped talking to herself and looked at Atton again. "Why would I have never picked up on it?"   
  
He smirked humorlessly. "How much practice have you honestly had picking out Force Sensitives?"   
  
"It's not funny." She said seriously, crossing her arms under her breasts and staring at the wall. "You said that Jil tried to save you. You should have worded that differently: She did save you." She scrambled off Atton's lap and scurried into the kitchen.   
  
"Meetra?" He called after her.   
  
"Shhh. Listen. Look." She breathed, falling to her knees on the carpet in the bright beam of sunlight that was shining through the dirty window. She was clutching the bottle of whiskey in her hand. "This bottle is full of poison. This is terrible to ingest. It tastes good, and it makes us feel good, but truthfully, it is a harmful chemical." She shook the bottle and the amber liquid sloshed around inside it. "However..." she began, positioning the bottle under the sunlight until golden waves and crystal white reflections danced on the wall and the ceiling. "It can still create something beautiful." She cast around until her eyes fell on her glass of whiskey, left abandoned on the floor. She crawled over to it and downed the entire thing before carefully positioning the crystal glass in the rays of the sun until a rainbow once again shone on the wall as it had before. "This glass is empty." She explained. "There is nothing in it that could fall under a definition of good or evil, and it still holds the potential to create beauty." She looked up at Atton and hooked some hair behind her ear, looking for some indication from him that he was following her. She saw nothing but confusion and embarrassed amusement. With a grunt she placed herself in front of him and jabbed her finger at his chest.   
  
"You. You are not a bottle of liquor, nor are you a crystal glass, but you are a reflective surface for wherever you choose to align yourself. Glass will appear dull and transparent in dim light; you will see what it contains, but any descript or defining characteristics of the vessel itself will be lost. Glass placed in the light takes on an entire life of its own: It will shine, regardless of what contents occupy it." She sat back on her heels and looked at him with an expression of utmost sincerity. "Why won't you shine?"   
  
"So what you're saying is..."   
  
"Jil is gone." She ignored the misery that passed over his face once more; no more fear, she pressed on. "I loved her, or thought I did at the time, but both she and Revan have proven to me that during that time in my life, I didn't know what love was. She, on the other hand demonstrated true, unselfish love through her actions towards you. She chose to pursue you because although you were nearly a complete stranger, you were her brother and you were in danger. She didn't even know you, but she was willing to give up everything because she believed that you could be saved. I'm sure she didn't intend for you to fall into this situation with me... no one could have fathomed things ending up where they are today, but the Force Atton... it's so much more than manipulating thoughts and matter. We were brought together for a reason."   
  
"She gave me love like a big fire. I only saw it once and since then, I've been afraid." He was staring at the ground again and the tops of his ears were a bit red as if he was embarrassed. "Afraid of what it would make me. But... maybe... maybe I could learn to use it. If it would mean helping you, keeping you safe, I would do it."   
  
She stared at him, trying to decide what to do with his request; it almost seemed like a betrayal to Jil to deny him, and he truly seemed repentant, but on the same token there was his history and more importantly that of him which she had witnessed first hand; he was a jealous man, prone to impulsive emotions and anger. Did he truly possess the discipline that would be necessary in order to complete any sort of training she could offer?   
  
That raised another issue: Meetra was no master. She wasn't even a knight when she left for the war. She was in no position to assume the mantle of 'teacher' to anybody, let alone someone who would require as much patience and dedication as Atton would.   
  
And then her own selfish thoughts came to the surface of her mind, causing her to question herself further: It was one or the other... if she did choose to train Atton to be a Jedi, that meant that the relationship developing between the two of them would have to take on a completely different turn. Jedi were forbidden to love, and they most certainly were forbidden to love each other. She wasn't too haughty to know that if she trained him and simultaneously continued to cultivate the sapling of romance that had broken free from the dirt, she would fail. He would fail. Once she possessed twelve lightsaber crystals that represented the Jedi that she had failed personally. She was faced with a choice; be selfish, or run the risk of making the number thirteen? She could tell him no. She could tell him that she was not gifted or patient enough to be a teacher when she knew it was a lie. Only if it meant that he'd be safe... and hers. But then, denying him a chance at absolution seemed so petty and reminded her only of the council that had banished her.   
  
She felt so tired, realizing only then that she hadn't slept in nearly an entire day.   
  
"I can't make this decision right now..." She said, staring at the open palms of her hands that rested on her lap. "I need some time... and some sleep." She blinked in her daze and stood up, not saying anything more as she trudged down the hallway and into Atton's bedroom, shutting the door behind her without looking back.   



	32. Chapter 32

Everything was pitch black. She nearly panicked when she realized this and forgot where she was for a moment until the soft bed under her reminded her that she was in Atton's apartment. His bedroom, to be precise. She sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes, wondering exactly how long she had been asleep for. The sun was low in the sky when she had retreated, but was still hours away from setting fully. She looked up at the window and realized that apartments on Nar Shaddaa – the nice ones anyway – were equipped with light blocking glass that was timed to darken with the setting of the sun, otherwise the bright industrial lights would have made the room as bright as day, even in the depth of night.   
  
Slow, even breathing to her left alerted her that she was not alone; Atton was sleeping next to her. She reached into her pocket and fished out a lighter, sparking it so that the small flame illuminated her surroundings. There he was, sleeping on top of the blankets, back to her with at least a foot and a half of distance between them. His jacket was gone and she could see the white linen of his shirt rising and falling gently as he slept. She lifted her thumb from the lighter, allowing the flame to die and plunge the room into darkness once more.   
  
"Atton?" She whispered and when he didn't respond she wiggled free from the blankets she had cocooned herself in and scooted closer to him. "Atton." She whispered again, pulling his shoulder so that he rolled onto his back. A thin smile lit her lips; he was still dead to the world. It was probably luxury, being able to sleep in a proper bed for once.   
  
There was nothing left to do but pull herself close to him and rest her head on his chest, splaying a leg over his own and listening to the darkness and the sound of his heartbeat.   
  
She lay in the comfortable quiet for a long time, allowing herself to take in every breath, with the knowledge that this would not last weighing heavily on her mind: She would do it. She would honour his request and train him to use the Force. Her idealistic dream of romance was only one more sacrifice she was bound to make in her life, and she was not prepared to try to selfishly bind and obligate him like she had done Jil. The truth of it hurt more than she thought it would and in all honesty, she would have killed to make him feel the way she was starting to feel about him, but… she simply wasn't the killing type: She just didn't have it in her to deny him training because of "love."   
  
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind: She was not a green child of the universe who, brazen and cumbersome in their own heart denied the idea of love; love was not just physical, nor was it purely emotional, it was not a disease or a curse, nor was it a beautiful dance between bride and groom: Love was simple and universal. Love was easy. Love was nothing to be ashamed of and it was freeing and beautiful. It was not taboo or graceless, and it was certainly not something to second-guess or be afraid of. It was really quite simple; you loved, or you did not. That which you loved, you honoured and kept sacred.   
  
Oh yes, she loved him. She loved him enough to help him obtain absolution and peace. That alone would be reciprocation enough.   
  
She felt a bit weepy then, and she felt her eyes fill with tears and her nose burned as she blinked them away.   
  
You stop that now, Surik. She chided herself inwardly. You're so blessed to have this guy around to begin with. Do right by him.   
  
He stirred slightly in his sleep, never waking but turning slightly towards Meetra and wrapping his arm around her waist as he continued to doze.   
  
Gently, quietly, bravely she willed herself to test the walls of his mind. She hadn't lied when she said the only time she had attempted to breach his defences was way back on Telos. The confusion and barrage of feelings she had sensed then had been enough to throw her weak control of the Force by the wayside like a heavy break crashing onto a beach, but she was stronger now, and she was prepared for the resistance she encountered even though the man was sound asleep.   
  
Patiently she sorted through the complicated weave of his mind, tiptoeing around the vast fortress that she found, dragging metaphysical fingers against the rough bricks of the wall until she found what she had been looking for: A crack.   
  
It was like a mass of scar tissue; a scab that never fully healed and lived on as knotted and discoloured flesh. She knew right away that this was the scar left by Jil's intrusion: Some things could be healed over time. Some attacks could be mended and favoured and treated carefully until they were indistinguishable from the rest, but this mental scar only served to prove the brutal force with which Jil had penetrated her twin's mind in her last living minutes. It certainly was buried deeply, hidden away under a thick layer of tricks and thoughts and feelings, but it was there and like a scab, Meetra knew that she was going to have to be the one to lift it at the edges and tear it away.   
  
Atton shifted again, his subconscious likely aware of what was going on, but his body too deep in sleep to catch on quite yet. Meetra pulled away from his mind, knowing that right now was not the right time to do what must happen next. The state of the room returned to normal and she went back to listening to the steady pace of his heart until sleep took her again.   
  
The next time she woke, the room was just as dark as it had been before; it took nearly ninety hours for the moon to turn fully on its axis, causing both night and day to stretch on for ages. What woke her was not light, but rather the feeling of Atton's hand in her hair and his lips on her jaw: He had obviously woken to find her curled up by his side.   
  
"Hey." Her voice broke through the darkness, hushed.   
  
"Hey." He said back, sounding just as drowsy as she did.   
  
They couldn't see each other, but their noses touched and Meetra's didn't even hurt anymore. They kissed in the black and Meetra's heart sang with happiness and joy and it took all that she had in her and more not to launch into a weepy tirade about her feelings. She only brushed her thumb across his smooth cheek as she held his jaw; he had obviously bathed and shaved since she had gone to bed. She did this and pushed herself closer to him, not wanting to let go, not wanting to say what she knew she had to say, knowing that he was waiting for her to say it.   
  
She was also fully aware by this time that if she did teach him, it would mean changing much of herself as well, and this was a prospect that scared her: Not only would she no longer be able to be with him in any emotional capacity, but she would also have to acknowledge who she was. She would no longer be able to hide from the Force, nor would she be able to be a belligerent drunk always looking for a party. She was thirty years old… she had to grow up.   
  
"I'll teach you." She promised him in the darkness. "It won't be easy… for either of us, but I'm willing to do this for you."   
  
"How? I mean should we get up, or…?"   
  
"No." She said quietly. "This is good. Right here: It's quiet and dark and free from distractions." She twined her fingers between his. "Before we go any further, I feel that I must make something clear; everything is about to change. You are taking the first steps down a road that is typically reserved for very young children who are innocent and inexperienced in the ways of life: Younglings know nothing but the Force. You've lived your entire life normally without any training, so I anticipate you will encounter a good deal of frustration and difficulty. I'm not a Master… but I'm all you've got." His breath was on her neck and she very nearly dropped the entire subject but forced herself to ramble on. "You told me once not to get too attached to you, but the last kiss had fool's cost: This can't continue if we are to succeed. I can't sleep with you, I can't love you, I can't kiss you… we can't let the bond between us be anything other than one of a teacher and student." He listened to her as she eloquently emptied the truth of her heart into the dark room, but never did he remove his hand from hers. "But you have my word that regardless of what happens or where we end up, I will comfort you, and I will stay with you: It's a promise not forgotten."   
  
"Meetra, I want to– "   
  
"No arguing. I just… I actually really want to do this, I want you to see the world in my eyes so… come on, let's light the night."   
  
"What are you going to do?" There was no fear in his voice.   
  
"You hold it in your heart… leave the rest to me." She said. "Get cozy… there's nothing to do but let me in. Ah… just a heads up, everything is about to get really cool." She said the last bit to lighten things a little. "Close your eyes." She instructed. "Are they closed?"   
  
"Yeah."   
  
"Good, now breathe. Concentrate on making each breath even and controlled and deliberate." As she told him what to do, she did the same. "Every inhalation should fill your lungs to your stomach; every exhalation should completely purge your body of air. Good… keep going, find the rhythm and continue controlling it." The sound of deep, even breathing nearly lulled her back to sleep; she felt so comfortable and safe, holding his hand in the dark. "Tell me when you're ready."   
  
"I'm ready."   
  
Slipping through the cracks and bars of Atton's mind was easier this time. Not only had she already been here, but many of his defences were down; there was no raging cacophony of numbers or memories, no forced emotions or mental tricks, only a quiet, faintly lit landscape of times and places and things that would never die. She found the scar she had detected earlier with ease, allowing herself to linger on it for awhile, knowing that Jil was the one to put it there years earlier. Her Jil. His Jil. Beautiful Jil.   
  
Breathing calmly and evenly still, she tore the scar away like an old dressing from a crusty wound and not a second later her vision was overrun with a veritable kaleidoscope of colour and sound; greens and blues danced and twirled and violet and orange shot and sparkled as she quickly blinked herself back into reality where her eyes opened and light still glimmered on her retinas. The vision softly faded away, but there was a light that still remained regardless, and she could feel his sadness wane. The sensation alone nearly caused her to cry with joy; this was Atton. This was him at his base and most honest moment.   
  
She simply couldn't help herself as she wrapped her arms around him and buried her head in his chest as she savoured the sweet, blue waves that rolled around them once again. She had done it… she had opened him up and what lay within was something so unexpectedly wonderful.   
  
"Meetra?" He tested. "What are you doing?"   
  
She let the tears come this time. She practically invited them and offered them tea and told them they could stay as long as they wanted to.   
  
"I'm riding the crazy blue waves through the space of your mind."   



	33. Chapter 33

"You've taken the murderer as an apprentice…"   
  
"I would say that 'apprentice' is not quite the correct word, considering our circumstances." Meetra said, bending at her torso and sitting on the cold floor across from Kreia, whose face was as veiled with shadow as ever. "But yes, I have agreed to teach him what I know."   
  
"And what deception did he trick you with to make you believe one such as him is worthy of your time and energy? A fool capable of wielding the Force is a dangerous thing."   
  
"I don't think he's as good at deception as some other people around here."   
  
Jil's scar was not the only wound that she had discovered in Atton's mind. One that was much more recent and fresh lived there too; one that had a distinct and equally familiar energy about it. At the time, Meetra only gave it a passing glance, but an uncomfortable awareness of the taint that surrounded this newer wound filled her. It was a fresh intrusion, and she guessed that Kreia would never have had reason to doubt the fortress of Atton's mind that would serve to cover up the lingering remnants of her presence there at one time.   
  
A dark smile pulled at the wrinkled and pouched skin of Kreia's face.   
  
"You haven't been drinking, or smoking. I sense that the Force is stronger in you now than it has been in some time."   
  
"I need to keep my mind clear if I am to train anybody." Meetra said dismissively.   
  
"Did you ever think you would be saying those words now when you lay on a filthy pile of rags in the alley of some outer rim planet, your mind reeling from a full fortnight of Carsunum and Millaflower as you gave up everything you could find… even the clothes off of your back for just a little more… just one more encounter that would take you closer to the Force that you sought? A damned and wretched thing of death, passed out in a public street, handed around by men at the parties you attended and scraping an existence without any measure of value or pride… you were never addicted to the substances, Exile, only the feeling that you got what you deserved in life."   
  
Disturbed that Kreia knew so much of her time in exile, she immediately went on the defensive.   
  
"None of that is for you to know."   
  
"Do you not trust me, Exile?"   
  
"I have a lot of reasons to not trust most people, but you… there is something festering in you. I don't need to use the Force to see it."   
  
"Is this how you justified your tutelage to a murderer? Did you sit on a just throne of righteousness and deem that the oily blackness that lives within him is something easily wiped away and overlooked? That possibly you can change his cruel nature, even as you cringe in revulsion at mine and deny the rot in your own veins? Or perhaps you leant your ear to his feigned confessions for other reasons entirely…"   
  
Meetra toyed with the drawstring of her hood and shifted to a more comfortable position.   
  
"I chose to teach him because I trust him. I don't trust him for no reason either… he has proven his worth time and time again."   
  
"Yes of course you trust him, and that is where your ultimate failing will be, Exile. Beware the thin man; that killer has a lean and hungry look. He will use you, as he's used so many before you. He'll get close to you, make you feel safe and at peace and cater to that longing that the Jedi built in you so many years ago to care for people and help them… and then he will destroy you, just as he has destroyed everyone else dear to him in his life. When that time comes, Exile, he will do it without remorse or a second thought."   
  
Meetra bit her lip hard, fighting against the desire to drag the old woman kicking and screaming off of the ship and hurling her into the nearest hole in the ground. She kept her teeth clenched tight as she rose to her feet and headed to the door, bravely bearing her back to her adversary to signify that she would play nice for now. She ran her hand up the curved durasteel frame of the door, her face the mask of detachment she wore during the wars.   
  
"Not so long ago I commanded a battalion of men who went into every battle with the order they bring back the finger bones of the men they fell in the field. I wore flowers that represented death and ghosts in my hair. I was feared across the galaxy by all who would dare to oppose the Republic and more importantly, Revan: Stay out of the minds of those we travel with from now on, Kreia or I will have you spaced… and I will do it without a second thought." She flipped the old woman's warning back on her before leaving the doorway and heading for the garage.   
  
Bao-Dur was where he always was, his array of tools organized perfectly around him as he worked.   
  
"You alright, General?"   
  
She nodded and smiled, opening the storage cabinet against the wall that held the environmental suit.   
  
"You'd tell me if Kreia ever… did anything that would jeopardize our mission, right?"   
  
A slightly sarcastic smile lit the face of the Iridonian.   
  
"You'd be the first to know, General."   
  
"Yeah, well if you ever get the feeling that she's about to do something along those lines, you have my full permission to crank her in the head with a spanner." She crammed what she could of the suit into a backpack and hoisted the rest of it over her shoulder, grasping the cumbersome helmet with her left hand. She surveyed her tech for a moment before speaking again. "I just wanted to say thanks for being the only person on this ship who hasn't either tried to kill me, or taken the chance to drive me up the wall every waking moment."   
  
"I'm a mechanic, General. We tend to fly under the radar as it is."   
  
"The thanks still stands, all the same. I'm off to that gas bar now, keep things under control here?"   
  
"Whatever you need, General."   
  
She shifted the awkwardly shaped helmet of the environmental suit, trying to find a more comfortable way to carry it. She was not looking forward to wandering around the streets holding so much gear; it made her slow and heavy and at a disadvantage should someone decide to pick a fight, but there was no way around the fact that she needed to infiltrate the Jekk'Jekk Tarr and she had to do it alone.   
  
She yelped when someone seized her by the wrist and yanked her into the bathroom. The helmet dropped from her arms and rolled across the floor as she regained her bearings.   
  
"That wasn't nice." She grumbled, picking the helmet up off the floor and tucking it under her arm.   
  
"I just thought I'd ask if you'd care to split a smoke before you leave. Alone. Again. You know that didn't work out so well for you last time."   
  
She smirked and snatched the unlit cigarra from Atton's lips. "Oh no. You're staying here. You have reading to do."   
  
"I hate reading."   
  
"You're so full of it, Rand. You've understood enough of my references to literature in the time that I've known you for me to know otherwise."   
  
"Alright, let me clarify; I hate reading history."   
  
"Join the club." She quipped, crushing the smoke in her hand and tossing it in the waste bin.   
  
"Why the hell did you do that?" He complained as she dusted her hands off over the sink.   
  
She looked at him keenly, her mouth a flat line. "If we're to be proper Jedi, Atton, we need to learn to set aside our vices… or at least not smoke so much."   
  
"I only have one left!"   
  
"Then I suppose you'll have to make it last." She replied. "Believe me; doing that hurt me just as much as it hurt you: I haven't smoked in three days."   
  
"No wonder you're so cranky. You look like you're ready to pull someone's arms off."   
  
She said nothing of her conversation with Kreia, despite that being the cause of her dark mood.   
  
"Jedi need to put themselves above physical addictions. Well, actually all addictions… mental, emotional…" She trailed off and looked at him from under her eyebrows pointedly before continuing, "You get the picture. What clarity would one achieve if they're spending all day jonesing for a cancer-stick?"   
  
"You've been drunk half the time I've known you."   
  
"And the entire time you've known me, I haven't been training hot-headed padawans who always seem to have an argument: This is for both our good. I'm not going to sit around forcing you to live up to the more flowery and debatable dogmas of the Jedi, but I do know for a fact that in order to learn how to properly use the Force, we have to maintain some semblance of sobriety, and I've been putting this off for too long as it is."   
  
"I was at Khoonda you know. I've seen what you're capable of."   
  
"Yes." She agreed, somewhat distantly, "But just imagine what I'll be capable of now that I'm focusing all of my effort on training you rather than drinking myself into an early grave: By training you, I am re-training myself. Always was a better do-er than talker anyway…" She trailed off and looked at Atton. "Oh don't look at me like that. You can still enjoy those things. I'm not asking you to take a vow of abstinence from all the fun things in life, but for now it's important for you to find a sense of balance that isn't tampered with by mind altering substances." She leaned against the sink, seizing on the opportunity for small talk with Atton… she always did. "How are you feeling, anyway?"   
  
"What do you mean how am I feeling?"   
  
She waved a hand dismissively through the air. "I lived without the Force for only a decade and it nearly caused my head to explode when it came back. You've lived with the Force your entire life, except you've internalized it like one would internalize a traumatic childhood memory. It's only natural to assume things are… different."   
  
Atton only shrugged casually, "Not really. I always had it, I just buried it… never touched it. I let it rot like my apartment."   
  
She stared through him again, in that way of hers that wordlessly accused him of once more being full of it.   
  
He uttered a huff of air and rolled his eyes and she could see him turning a lighter over in his hand: Just one more endearing mannerism that was so subtle.   
  
"It comes and goes." He admitted. "Sometimes I feel exhausted, like too much is happening in my own head at once. I mean, I can handle it; the old defences are still there, but every now and then it's just too much. The rest of the time I feel an awareness that I've never had before, sort of like how it feels to wake up from a good sleep. How do you think I was able to snatch you out of the corridor like that? I knew you were coming: I felt it."   
  
She folded her arms under her breasts and regarded him silently for a moment. "I'm glad you're using it." She said. "You're a stronger man than I."   
  
He laughed and it was only slightly derisive. "Blondie doesn't think so. I may be new at all of this, but I didn't have to be Exar Kun to feel the hate coming off of him the other day when you dragged me into your little meditation room for a cozy hippie-session."   
  
She shook her head and laughed genuinely at Atton's interpretation of meditation. "It may seem as simple as hatred to you at this point. Right now you're capable of tapping the thin outer skin of emotions and feelings that people carry… like heat, the strongest emotions will inevitably rise to the top as I'm sure you're aware. Mical doesn't hate you: He's terrified of you: He didn't expect you to be coming back with me after your previous discussion and I'm sure he didn't expect you to be coming back as someone who is capable of using the Force. There are a number of feelings bouncing around in that head of his but none of them can be so simply labelled as hate… he doesn't trust you, he thinks you're cowardly, and much to my surprise, our patient and normally amicable friend is envious of you." Before Atton's mouth could split into the smirk she knew her words would inspire, she pressed on. "Don't let it go to your head." She warned. "He sees you as a threat to me; someone unworthy of my attention and direction when he so readily would give me everything… prove him wrong. I'm not asking you to kiss my ass – "   
  
"Too bad."   
  
"I'm being serious. It's good that you can sense Mical's feelings but something that you need, need, need to keep in mind is that you can't make any judgment based on what you can sense… not ever. You should know this better than anyone; strong surface emotions can't be trusted. Often they're inaccurate and only represent a deeper issue, or an outright lie. How many Jedi did you lure into a trap just by throwing random emotions up to trick them into trusting you, or sympathizing with you?" It was subtle, but she saw him squirm slightly at her words. "For now, just stay here… keep studying. Be patient, be kind and be balanced. I should be back in a few hours, Force-willing this all goes according to plan."   
  
"What is the plan, anyway?"   
  
Meetra shrugged. "Infiltrate, and make a mess until I get what I want: I have little patience for organized crime."   
  
"How Jedi-like of you." Atton said snidely.   
  
"I'm not a Jedi and I'm not teaching you to be a Jedi either: I'm teaching you to use the Force because you said you wanted to help me. We'll cross the Jedi bridge if we live long enough to get to it. I have neither the patience nor the desire to try and completely remould you as a human being. Dealing with myself is hard enough…" She squeezed past him, the cumbersome environmental suit catching briefly on the doorframe as she made her exit.   
  
She felt slightly guilty as she strolled as nonchalantly as she could through Nar Shaddaa with an environmental suit strapped to her back: She had lied to Atton. It wasn't quite a lie, but she had carefully stepped around the truth about Mical. Yes, he distrusted Atton, and yes he saw him as a murderer and a threat, but his unmistakable discomfort when Meetra had brought Atton to meditate the day before was not for the fact that he loathed Atton; Mical was an immensely forgiving, compassionate person and Meetra doubted his capacity to hold much of a grudge, especially when there was no real reason for it. No, Mical was envious of Meetra's tutelage of Atton simply because he was Force Sensitive too. She'd picked it out when they first began meditating together but had kept it to herself and never thought to breach the subject until she returned to the Ebon Hawk with Atton in tow and she sat down with an incredibly confused Mical and explained everything to him.   
  
Simply put, she crushed the boy and he was incapable of hiding it.   
  
Why should Atton get training and not him? Meetra knew the question would arise tangibly soon, and eventually she would have an answer for Mical, but right now was not the right time to embroil herself in another moral dilemma. Besides, she was stumbling through the dark with Atton, relying only on her own feelings to teach him. She was no Master: She didn't have practice lightsabers, or robes or a complete archive at her disposal. She didn't even know how she was going to do the lightsaber bit; she could have died happily if she never had to touch another one of the blasted things again, but lightsaber training was unfortunately going to be a necessity eventually. She was less worried about the robes; she couldn't imagine Atton swapping out his worn leather jacket for a set of billowy wool robes even if there was a gun pressed to his head.   
  
"Hey aren't you Vogga's new dancing girl?"   
  
She turned her head sharply to see a couple of bounty hunters leaning against the rusted railing of the platform they shared. They were filthy from head to toe and she could smell their reek from a distance.   
  
"Nope." She said shortly, never halting her quick pace as she breezed past the pair.   
  
She heard the high pitched whine of a blaster pistol charging and her back felt hot as her senses warned her that she was in danger.   
  
"Give us a dance, word is you're good."   
  
Meetra sighed and let her shoulders slump exasperatedly; she'd already been knocked out and nearly murdered by Mandalorians, she wasn't about to become victim to another batch of disgusting bounty hunters.   
  
"Look," She began, feeling rather daring as she turned around to face her harassers, flicking her wrist through the air; it was such a subtle and casual gesture, and one that would be their undoing if all went well. "I'm awful at dancing. Why don't you give me a dance instead? And don't stop until I tell you to." She would never dare try to affect the mind of someone like Atton or Mical, or really any of the crew, but these bounty hunters were obviously not the brightest, and as she hoped, she felt their feeble minds break under her influence as she gave the gentlest mental push to the sub par contents of their skulls.   
  
"I bet she's actually a terrible dancer." The bounty hunter said, turning to his Trandoshan companion. "We should show her how it's done. I find myself filled with the urge to dance till I drop."   
  
Meetra didn't even crack a smile as the pair started shuffling around awkwardly, bobbing their heads and swinging their hips. It might have been funny if she wasn't so repulsed. She took solace in the fact that at least she was recognized as a cantina dancer and not a famous Jedi worth a lot of money. She shifted the helmet again, struggling to keep a grip on it as she turned and left the bewitched fools behind.   
  
She stopped at the entrance to the docks, setting the helmet on the ground while she checked that her blaster was clear in its holster and her vibroblade was easily accessible.   
  
"Thought you were supposed to be reading." She said without turning around, never ceasing her fussing with her belt.   
  
"And I thought you might need these."   
  
She glanced quickly over her shoulder and saw the medpacs that her pilot held out.   
  
"You think I can't take care of myself?" She asked, "Or did you overlook those poor bastards back there who made the mistake of hooting at me on the street?"   
  
"It won't be long until someone comes to put a stop to it. They're easy prey now. Clever way to keep your hands clean, Surik" He crammed the medpacs in her hand. "Anyway, it's not that I don't think you can't take care of yourself, I just want you to be careful, and knowing your luck this is bound to blow up in your face. Couldn't hurt to have a couple more of those in the off-chance your suit is breached, right? You'll be thanking me when your lungs aren't hanging out of your mouth."   
  
"Your concern is noted." She remarked, finding herself charmed by his loyalty; he clearly hadn't been bluffing when he expressed his desire to protect her. "Thanks, Atton."   
  
Uncomfortable silence fell and she fidgeted nervously with her belt buckle, and cleared her throat, signalling it was time for him to get lost: It was always so much worse when he was within arm's reach and she could reach out and touch the ever-present five o'clock shadow that dwelled on his chin, or count the flecks of gray in his otherwise unremarkable eyes. Rising above her passions certainly was easier when he wasn't occupying her personal space and giving her veiled tokens of affection and concern.   
  
She recalled the cantina on Telos where he had personally emptied the pockets of every patron simply because the bartender was an asshole to her and she felt the tips of her ears flush.   
  
His eyes lingered on hers for an awkwardly long time before he finally acknowledged her uncomfortable body language.   
  
"I'll be out here keeping watch." Before Meetra could object, he reached into his pocket and held up his datapad. "I brought reading material!" He insisted and she knew there was no convincing him to go back to the Hawk. He hid it well, but since opening him to the Force the bond between the two of them had strengthened and cured into something that she knew was now nearly unbreakable; he had become easier to read and she could tell from a glance that he took his promise to her seriously: He wouldn't let complacency rule him. Not when the last time she had wandered off by herself she ended up tied up and beaten in a cargo container. It was nice to have someone so devoted to looking out for her. She insisted to everyone that she was fine, gave off airs that she could handle herself, but it certainly didn't make the truth of the matter any less brutal: Sometimes she couldn't, but she never was good at setting aside her pride and asking for help. Everyone just accepted that if she had something to do alone, she'd do it alone and show up bloody and bruised when the job was done… no one ever insisted on arguing. No one except Atton.   
  
Just as Jil had been the only one ballsy enough during the war to call her a jackass when the occasion called for it, Atton was the only one ballsy enough to just… show up and watch her back, whether she liked it or not.   
  
"It's good to know someone's got my back." She said, stooping and collecting the helmet again. "Would you be interested in joining me for dinner when I get back? I'm sure slaying gangsters will give me quite an appetite."   
  
"Thought you weren't supposed to emotionally connect with me." He taunted slyly.   
  
She threw her empty hand in the air, "Oh and Force forbid I share a meal with you!" She proclaimed sarcastically. She jabbed a finger at his chest, "Don't give me that connection shavit, Rand… Masters form bonds with their padawans and those bonds go deeper than a quickie in an alley somewhere. Just meet me here, okay?"   
  
"I'll be here alright." He assured her. "Just… don't get killed." There was a sincerity in his final words that she couldn't overlook.   
  
"Will do." She adjusted her grip once again on the helmet, and recovered her quickly slipping persona of detachment, at the same time vowing inwardly to find a more compact environmental suit when the opportunity arose: She ended up half dragging the thing through the entrance to the docks.   



	34. Chapter 34

A foul mood emanated from her when she returned to the ship. Well, not exactly foul, but impatient. Atton assumed it had something to do with the bulbous droid that had followed them back.   
  
He stifled laughter as the orb of a droid floated aboard the ship, boldly intercepting Meetra and beginning to say something, only to be carelessly brushed aside by an invisible hand when she strode by the thing without a second glance. He suspected she was headed straight for the garage to ask Bao-Dur to find a way to shut the damn thing down.   
  
The next mistake the droid made was following her.   
  
"Oh no. You get the hell out of the garage! You're under quarantine pal, now start making moves and get into the main command room before my curiosity gets the better of me and I decide to take you apart. Let me give you further incentive; I'm not good with mechanics." The rough bark of a general, and not a Jedi came from the garage and Atton could only shake his head and smile as he closed the loading ramp behind himself.   
  
"Do something with that!"   
  
She was well out of earshot, but he could faintly hear her hissed order and could all but see her in his mind's eye, jerking her thumb towards where the droid had bobbed off to. Idly he couldn't help but wonder what other things he could hear and see inside of her because of this 'bond' or whatever. It was a lustful fancy, but one that was too enticing to overlook – He tucked it in a metaphysical back-pocket for later when he heard her confront the droid in the main command room.   
  
"This is clearly an over-reaction, I was always under the impression that Jedi were – "   
  
"Not to be screwed with? Seriously, I'm not messing around here you over-grown Krayt-turd: If I catch you anywhere else aboard this ship other than this room, we're all gonna find out if we can shoot your little toy out of the ship's ion cannons."   
  
"Any aggressive behaviour towards this equipment is… discouraged. I have equipped it with a deterrent to prevent any unwanted tampering." The droid's dead, hollow voice echoed around the steel hull.   
  
"So you mean that if I get bored and decide to kick this stupid sphere around some, it'll blow us to hell and back again?"   
  
"More or less, Jedi. I hope you understand… this piece of equipment represents a significant investment on my part."   
  
Silence for a moment and then, "Shut up Go-to." Her boot-steps faded into the cockpit and Atton followed them, taking the opportunity to jeer into the garish red photoreceptor of the droid Meetra had just chewed out. It felt good to have her be reluctant about someone tagging along for once when she was usually so open-armed and accepting. The fact that her distrust for the droid was so vehement solidified his own sense of value and self-worth: Atton had no love for droids, but this one seemed to be built for the sole purpose of insubordination and treachery… it was just a feeling he got from the monotonous, nasally voice that emanated from the thing.   
  
He found her sitting in her customary co-pilot's chair, her boot-clad feet resting on the console and her hand hanging limply by her side, a cigarra slowly smouldering between her nicotine stained fingers. Her eyes were closed and her other hand was pressed over her eyes; she looked the very picture of exasperation.   
  
"Gettin' too old for this, man." She drawled, ashing her smoke on the floor. "Between the Exchange, and suicidal Sith-mistresses, and getting the crap kicked out of me every other day, and teaching you to use the Force… there isn't a god in known space right now that could make me feel better."   
  
Atton didn't take his seat in the pilot's chair, instead he stayed standing behind Meetra.   
  
"So… what you're saying is you're sad." It wasn't a question; it was a statement.   
  
She shot him an offended look from under her palm.   
  
"More astute observations of surface emotions, Atton?"   
  
Despite her sarcasm he crossed his arms and stood his ground. "I call 'em as I see 'em."   
  
Defiantly she kept her eyes covered but thrust her arm out sharply, offering him the smoke. His window of opportunity opened and he took it without hesitation; he gently plucked the cigarra from her outstretched fingertips and grabbed her forearm while doing so, leveraging their weight in the tiny space and causing them both to topple backwards into the well-worn pilot's seat.   
  
"There, that's not so bad is it?" He pulled her closer, her hip digging into the muscle of his left thigh.   
  
"Atton. Atton, stop… no, let me go. Atton!" She yelped when he pushed his hands up inside of her jacket and wiggled his fingers against her rib cage.   
  
"Ahhh… and now I know the closest kept secret of the Jedi: they're ticklish."   
  
She squawked and flailed in a way that was utterly unbecoming for a woman as typically hard and deliberate as herself.   
  
"Stop…" She panted between forced and unwilling laughter. "I'm not above pulling hair."   
  
Atton's laughter turned into a surprised "Ooof!" As the back of Meetra's head made contact with his sternum and drove the wind from his chest as she lashed around in futility.   
  
"Ow! Quit that. I'm holding a smoke, remember?" He reached over his shoulder and dropped the spent remnants of the smoke onto the floor and grabbed her wrists, muscling her hands away from his head where her fingers were gripped tight in his hair, proving her to be no yellow bluff.   
  
"Got you to lay off." She muttered darkly, trying to reclaim her hands while poorly hiding a smile. She looked over her shoulder, forcing her gaze to the side, lest one more direct glance be the one that washed away her resolve. "Let go." Her gaze wandered everywhere else in the room until it had nowhere else to land but him – him and his eyes and his stupid smirk and his dumb hair that went in every wayward Force-forsaken direction regardless of how much product he attempted to tame it with.   
  
The cockpit hummed quietly.   
  
Ah fuck.   
  
Not a word more was said, Meetra only yanked her wrists out of Atton's grip and sat with her knees on either side of his legs and kissed him hard. It was a spontaneous, rushed expression that left them both with flushed cheeks and messy hair when they parted after only a moment to look each other, wide eyed and breathing heavily each wordlessly imploring the other to take the reins of the situation that was quite quickly spiralling out of control. When neither of them did, the silent decision was made.   
  
With an exasperated groan, Meetra kissed him again, ignoring the arm-rests that were beginning to bruise her calves and thighs as she held onto the lapels of Atton's jacket for dear life.   
  
"Atton…" She moaned as his aggression rose to match her own and his hands worked their way under her shirt and found bare flesh. "Atton." A warning tone crept into her voice this time as she ended the kiss and started pulling away. "We can't." She hissed, pushing herself away by planting her hands on his shoulders. When his advances didn't cease, she leaned back even further, and even as his hand came up to the back of her neck to keep her from toppling backwards, she willed him to stop what she had so foolishly started due to the truth that Atton had so effortlessly gleaned; she was sad.   
  
She leaned another inch back and let gravity take her, aware of her graceless plummet off of Atton's lap and onto the cold floor. She peeled herself up quickly, all long legs and wrinkled clothing with her matted brown hair falling over her face. She dragged the stray hair off her face, pushing it to the crown of her head with her hand to reveal flushed red cheeks and wet eyes.   
  
"I'm gonna go have a shower… clear my head. Shave my legs or something…" She blurted a number of things out in a scattered manner before all but bolting out of the cockpit and into the bathroom.   
  
She didn't have words for herself; she only glared at her reflection in the mirror in passing before turning the water on and disrobing in silence.   
  
Scars, burns, slashes, stitches: Pale pink and white patches of skin that all told a story glistened as she washed them clean. She'd never really suffered any heinous injuries in her lifetime, but a significant collection of physical mishaps and bad decisions were etched on her skin: She squeezed her hands shut tight and watched the flesh of her knuckles pull tight and whiten under the soap suds where she had callused and torn them over the years. A number of small, nearly undetectable marks lived on the insides of her elbows from the tips of dirty needles injected into virgin skin; she'd considered getting tattoos to cover up the shameful scars of her addiction, but had never found the time nor the bravery to admit to any artist where they came from, though any street-wise person would know from a glance.   
  
She soaped up her shoulder next, relieved to find the wound she had taken on Dantooine was now nothing more than an exceptionally smooth patch of skin with edges that blended softly with the rougher skin around it.   
  
Silence and thoughts of scars nagged her. Resentment and anger ripped through her for reasons she couldn't categorize neatly in her mind. She didn't want things in the cockpit to end like they did. She didn't want to fall on the floor and run away like an idiot… that was certainly not the ending she had in mind when she found herself almost magnetically attracted to Atton's face, but the invisible spiked collar of responsibility dug into the soft skin of her throat and quite literally yanked her away from the object her desire with a ferocious righteousness that made her seethe under the hot water; she'd gone through most of her life finding loopholes and managing to tip-toe precariously around rules and boundaries in a way that often lent them to her favour rather than her failure. Then Atton came along.   
  
Two years ago, she would have wasted every credit in her bank account on lavish spending and the highest class drugs to inject into her veins and the ritziest liquor to heave into a gutter at three in the morning if it meant having him around all the time… preferably naked and just as high as she. She would have done unspeakable things to gain some semblance of feeling or affection from him, sunk to absurd lows to create in her mind a mosaic of love pieced together from the splintered shards of her pitiful life. She would have knowingly used him and broken him further and in doing so, cast herself further into the sewage filled cesspit of her own making… she would have done it happily… in Kreia's own words: without a second thought. And when Atton became strung-out and abusive and the cold, hopeless grey afternoons blended together into a painful combination of silence and hunger and withdrawal, she'd take joy and self-worth from the bruises he'd leave on her jaundiced skin and the bite-marks he'd crush into the thin flesh of her neck as he used her to pass the time…   
  
Her mind stilled when she clued in to the fact that she was breathing heavily; taking in huge, chugging breaths of thick, hot air as she stood hunched under the running water.   
  
Tears mingled with the moisture on her face and she wiped them away, forcing her breathing back to a normal rate and filling the echo-ey room with music with a tired wave of her hand: Her life was lived in extremes it seemed.   
  
"Shut up, Meetra." She muttered, her quiet rebuke echoing around her as she squeezed a generous glob of shampoo into her palm and continued to calm herself down. She sniffed the humid air around her and frowned, snatching the shampoo bottle off of the ledge in the wall. "What a sweetheart." She mused to the inanimate object, keeping in mind the person who had obviously placed it in the shower: Mical had somehow found frangipani shampoo for her. Her spirits lifted considerably by the kind, unspoken gesture, she massaged the rich smelling soap into her tangled hair and felt peace returning to her at last… at least, enough peace for her to shyly attempt one of her most favourite of bathing activities; singing loudly and badly along with the music.   
  
"Ayaaa! Ayaaa! We're alone and there's no room here anymore. Ayaaa! Ayaaa! We're alone and there's no room here anymore!" She rocked her head forward and suds coated the walls and ran down her back as she grooved. Everyone did it and she knew it; who bathed and didn't have a shower-jam-sesh? It just didn't seem practical or right to stand solidly still under the water and tend only to bathing and grooming. How boring. "Sweeeet Aya bring it on, I wanna kiss you till they're gone!" She ripped out a quick invisible-bass solo during the verse and spread slick soap remnants over the angles and curves of her bare skin, thinking of only one thing and one person: While she couldn't consummate a relationship of any physical variety with Atton, she could certainly think filthy thoughts about him while she showered. "Sweeeet Aya bring it on! I wanna kiss you till they're gone!" Her voice went shrill when the water turned burning hot and then frigid.   
  
Someone had flushed.   
  
Her solo concert to the shower-head was no longer a private affair.   
  
"Get out!" She screeched in panic. Her tone deepened to anger when familiar laughter permeated the mist and rushing water. "Get out!" She flung the shower door open and poked her head out, caring little about the fact that she was as naked as the day she was born. She slipped a little on the smooth floor of the shower, but managed to keep herself upright by gripping the frame of the shower while Atton was zipping up his rigged-together fly with the smuggest sort of smile on his face.   
  
"It's rude to leave until after the encore." He quipped, shaking his head.   
  
"I didn't invite you to come in here and take a leak while I was showering!" She thundered, white-knuckling the frame of the shower door.   
  
"I dunno… pretty suggestive lyrics you were belting out there. Hey, did you know it takes a good fifteen minutes of the water on full heat for that door to fog up all the way?"   
  
Her eyes widened and her mouth closed tightly in a line of fury as her nostrils flared and her eyebrows rose.   
  
"How long have you been in here?" She asked stonily.   
  
Atton threw her a crooked smile and only the most unassuming twitch of the brow before she reached a sopping wet hand out of the torrent of water and dragged him into the shower, quickly peeling his jacket away and throwing it out of the wet environment.   
  
"We're good." She breathed, blinking water out of her eyes. He pushed her back against the wall of the shower and she set about un-tucking and removing his shirt between frantic kisses. Frantic… their kissing was always so hurried, so desperate, as if at any moment they could be caught or found out by some sort of fraud police who would storm into the bathroom with a clipboard and declare that they were obviously both complete shams, and there was no way that either of them should ever be remotely interested in the other.   
  
So she slowed down. She kissed him slowly and delicately until his own pace slowed to match hers. A spontaneous exhalation seeped slowly and calmly out of her nose as the flesh of their faces met and warm water filled their eyes and their mouths. Water dripped from the messy tips of his drenched hair and his long nose and pooled in the soft above his lip as he looked privately into her eyes and touched her with the same gentleness intoned with the soft kisses she returned.   
  
"You can't beat yourself up for things you can't change, right?"   
  
She slid another inch up the wall and clenched her eyes shut tight at Atton's words.   
  
"I'm not saying you can't be sad. Anyone can be sad. Everyone should be sad when the cards call for it."   
  
The eyes shut tighter still and a sound that was partly a sob and partly a moan fell from Meetra's mouth.   
  
"There's just so much to do." She croaked in a broken voice.   
  
"Not now." Atton said. "Right now it's just you and me."   
  
\- Sweet Ayaaaa bring it on I wanna ki –   
  
"So many people…" She mumbled, lifting her chin to the ceiling. "So many to help…"   
  
"Right now." He reminded her, pushing his fingers through the wet hair at the nape of her neck. "Right now you can be a person… a normal human being. You have a good hand right now, Surik… don't stand on a seventeen."   
  
"I don't wanna screw you up." She admitted, circling her arm around his bare torso to rest her hand over his shoulder, playing with the beads of water that rolled from his neck to the sanctuary above his collarbone. "I'm afraid to screw you up."   
  
"Pretty screwed up already."   
  
\- Ayaaa! We're alone and there's no room here anym –   
  
"Atton –"   
  
"You don't think I don't understand what I'm doing, do you?"   
  
"No, it's not that…" She sighed rather lustily as his fingers continued to explore within her.   
  
"Then what?"   
  
'We can't."   
  
"Says who?"   
  
He had a point; there was technically no Council to answer to. She was technically still exiled and no longer considered a member of the Jedi Order. Even if anyone else aboard the Hawk had anything to say about it, Meetra could count on discretion from those whose trust she'd earned. Kreia would always have a list of rebukes and shames to guilt her with and Mical would always feel unrequited but… Atton was right.   
  
She gently pushed his hand away from her.   
  
"Happiness is not my lot in life." She said, staring distantly at the shower floor. "I feign it as well as you have, but I fear there is no bright light at the end of my long tunnel."   
  
"Why do you think I keep coming back for you?" He said, a note of disdain in his voice mingled with patience. "The hot water's run out, Meetra and I'm still standing in the shower."   
  
"Then we should get out." She muttered, turning off the water and pushing herself past Atton.   
  
\- I wanna kiss you till they're gone. Till they're all gon –   
  
She wrapped herself in a towel and threw one to Atton, ruffling her hair as dry as she could with a smaller towel as he stepped out of the shower, water pooling around the tattered hems of his pants.   
  
The song had ended and the vacancy of sound filled the ears of the two Force users with curiosities; quickly beating hearts and slow breathing, dripping water and the muffled quiet of fingers shuffling nervously against terry cloth: They stood feet apart but they both heard everything.   
  
Eternity seemed to pass.   
  
Blink.   
  
Another eternity.   
  
He blinked.   
  
Infinity repeated itself: Its redundancy was becoming commonplace at this point.   
  
They both blinked.   
  
The towel dropped away and the sodden pants fell and the next morning after the jump to hyperspace, Atton was re-attaching the towel bar to the wall while Meetra sat against the wall next to him, stirring a freshly brewed cup of coffee.   



	35. Chapter 35

"You seem balanced."   
  
Meetra only glanced slightly sideways at Mical while pouring herself a cup of coffee.   
  
"Hmmm?"   
  
"Considering we're en route to Korriban of all places, I expected you would be rather more… unsettled."   
  
Meetra waved a hand through the air dismissively and smiled.   
  
"Don't be ridiculous. Just one more place we have to go... what do I care if it's the sacred training ground of the Sith?"   
  
Mical always did this one thing that made her quite uncomfortable: He'd look at her like he was trying to say something, or ask her something but in the end always seemed to think better of it. The man held a spark for her that was indisputable and impossible to overlook or mistake for something else; as always, the nature of her bonds were deeply rooted in a short time.   
  
"Are you okay?"   
  
Why yes, yes of course I am. She wanted to answer. I've found myself against all better judgement having a passionately burning affair with the one person on this ship who I really should stay well away from. But we live only once and when we go to sleep at night even that we will wake up the next morning is an assumption, so why the hell not? I may not make it out of this alive, he might not make it out of this alive, so fuck it: I want to be happy.   
  
Late-night liaisons in the cockpit and the bathroom left little room for error from either of them as the Ebon Hawk cruised through space towards Korriban. What started as a small collection of companions had become a veritable family of sorts with the inclusion of bounty hunter Mira and Goto's foul droid – sneaking around the ship so late at night was becoming risky, especially when she and Atton discovered the other night that Mira had a bladder the size of a gizka's brain.   
  
It had been early dawn when she there was a rapping at the bathroom door while Meetra was perched on the counter, her fingers clenched tight around the edges of the steel sink as Atton rolled his hips against hers, the pair of them keeping relatively silent apart from their breathing which was deep and hurried.   
  
Her head dropped forward and immediately snapped to the source of the sound and surprise consumed her already flushed features. She looked at her equally caught off guard cavalier with round eyes and slid off the counter.   
  
"Get out!" She hissed.   
  
"Me? What about you?" He whispered back, clutching his pants shut with a spare hand.   
  
"I'll hide."   
  
"Where?"   
  
"In the shower." She pursed her lips shut in a terse look that wordlessly stressed that they didn't have time to argue about it.   
  
"Open the friggin' door... I hafta pee!" Mira's fist thumped against the door again a few more times. Meetra bit her lip to stifle laughter: Despite the awkward knowledge Mira would know about her late night activities, there was something rather comical about the situation.   
  
"She'll be way less freaked out if she finds me hiding in the shower." Meetra explained quickly keeping her voice as low as she could, hauling her tank-top back down over her breasts with one hand and attempting to tame her hair with the other.   
  
Atton rolled his eyes as Meetra ducked into the shower and pressed herself flat against the wall that hid her from view from anyone who happened to be using the toilet, and she heard a flush and the sound of a zipper being drawn up.   
  
"About damn time." Meetra heard Mira growl and she knew that Atton had opened the door.   
  
"Sometimes a guy just needs to set aside time to think." Came his effortless reply as she heard him clip his belt shut.   
  
"At quarter past three in the morning, Atton? Gross. You didn't even wash your hands."   
  
"Can't blame me, can you? Gets lonely in this piece of junk and the female company around here isn't very friendly." He sneered.   
  
"You try and touch me flyboy and you're gonna find yourself short a piece of equipment."   
  
"Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart. Red-heads aren't my type."   
  
Meetra heard Mira slam the door in Atton's face and once again had to bite back laughter; in his own sleazy way, Atton managed to possess a suaveness that was laughably effective.   
  
"I'm fine, Mical. Thank you for asking." She looked up and threw her spoon in the sink, taking a sip of her coffee. "What causes you such concern for my well-being?"   
  
"I suppose... nothing really." He admitted, setting the datapad he had been scrolling through on the table. "There's absolutely nothing about you right now that causes concern, which also causes me to be curious... something changed on Nar Shaddaa."   
  
"Did it?" She said, loading the toaster with some bread. "I know I'll never get that smell out of my nose, but other than that, it was everything I expected it to be: Filthy, loud and far too depressing for my liking. Can't imagine why anyone would want to spend any length of time there." Although that apartment and more specifically the bed inside it will be sorely missed…   
  
Mical shook his head. "Your meeting with Master Zez-Kai Ell... you haven't spoken of it."   
  
"What's to speak of?" She took a large swig of coffee and made a face; she had burnt it again. "Always got along well with him. He was a gentle soul, always patient and able to keep up with me when I was a wild youngling. I'm glad to see he remains so peaceful despite all of this bloodshed."   
  
"But did he train you? Did he teach you anything or perhaps offer some advice to help heal your wound?"   
  
Meetra snatched the toast out of the air as it popped from the toaster and crammed the corner of one piece in her mouth.   
  
"No." She said through the bread. "Feigned ignorance about it like Vrook did. He taught me a lightsaber form though... for all the good that does me."   
  
"Why won't you use a lightsaber?"   
  
"Because I'm not a Jedi." She said, sitting across from Mical. "A blaster is far more useful for what we're doing anyway. Besides, the entire bounty on Jedi thing lends one to believe that igniting a saber every time someone challenged us would be… well… foolish." Discretion and subtly were what was going to keep herself and the ever-growing crew under her safe for now. She knew there would come a time when flitting under the radar of the Republic and their enemies would not be a possibility, but for now this was working fine. After all, there was a very specific reason she usually travelled only with Atton when they left the ship: If they were being consistently watched, they needed to counter by being consistently… consistent. She kept him constantly by her side for the fact that he solidified nearly any alibi she could come up with on the fly. Atton was a talented liar, as he had proven on Dantooine, and what could be more unassuming than a pair of card players cruising the cantinas, or an adventurous couple on a trip across the galaxy to explore some of its more forgotten history?   
  
"I would think that training... Atton would incline you to pick one up again." The deliberate pause before Atton's name did not go un-noticed by Meetra who only shrugged again.   
  
"I'm leaving that decision entirely up to him. If he wants to, great: He'll have to make his own, and I'll train him using a sword." She tore off another piece of bread with her teeth and studied the handsome man; as soon as anything to do with Atton came up his eyes automatically turned down and his voice lost the distinct, interested quality it usually held. "What?" She prompted.   
  
"Why him?"   
  
"Atton? What about him?"   
  
"Why did you choose to train him?"   
  
Meetra sighed but kept her calm, biting down on any flippant remarks that might wound the poor man any further. She was beginning to consider printing out a memo and plastering it across every door on the Hawk if it meant not having to answer this question again.   
  
"Because he asked me to." She explained gently, taking into account her friendship with Mical and her own affections for him. "Because he was born with the Force and was never trained to use it and I mean in case you haven't noticed the galaxy is a bit short on Jedi right now..." She let her words hang and took another sip of coffee. "I also figured I sort of owe it to someone who it turns out is long dead. I always try to square my debts, Mical, when the time allows it." She quirked her mouth to the side in a half smile, hoping he would understand… hoping he wouldn't hate her or think that she had malignantly overlooked every single kindness he had lavished on her; incense sticks and her favourite shampoo and sandwiches made just the way she liked them and the poetry he would read to her sometimes after they meditated. She hoped that he knew that she didn't choose Atton purely to spite him, and that it had really just come down to a matter of what felt right… but how do you say that to someone, you know?   
  
The urge to say something appeared to take Mical again, and this time he was unable to hold back his words and bury them behind a cunning glance.   
  
"I just don't want to see you put in a position where you may have to make a difficult choice… and get hurt in the process." He said quietly, his eyes lingering on the floor.   
  
So young. He was so young. He was beyond his years with book-smarts and philosophical dreamings but at his core, Mical at this very moment was the most miserable man who had ever lived; a young man, convinced of his unrequited feelings.   
  
"Mical…" She began, her tone softening. "I understand that you're concerned but I can –"   
  
"Take care of yourself?" He interjected, and disdain crept into his voice and caused Meetra's heart to crack a little more as she continued slowly chewing on her toast for a lack of anything more poised to do. "That must be what you told everyone at the academy who warned you not to leave for the war. You also must have said the same thing to dozens of people during the war and look at how well that turned out for you. People don't warn you to be annoying, Meetra. They warn you against the dangers of your actions because they care for you. So far in your life it appears you have managed to ignore almost every single one of them… do you ever stop to wonder why many of these people are now either dead or gone from your life?"   
  
"Surely being exiled for a decade didn't help my social life." She said curtly, pouring another coffee; Mical was usually so passive, to see him actually exude any measure of passion about something other than a book or an idea was uncommon. "Tea?" She waited for Mical to nod and set about heating up some water; this may well have been her first proper argument with the man, but she wasn't surprised to find it so far to be terribly civil.   
  
"You don't even know his real name, Meetra." He offered with exasperation. "How can you trust someone who won't even tell you their name?"   
  
Those exact words were part of the reason that Meetra would not yet offer training to Mical; Atton had let go. Atton had come clean, opened up and admitted that the pain it took to remain a fragile bud was far worse than the risk it would take to bloom. Mical was still doubting and afraid… ignorant even. He was young, innocent, and any pain or hardship he had suffered thus far in his life, though it could not be dismissed as insignificant, could also not be set side by side with the lifetime of mistakes and flaws that made Atton who he was. It wasn't that Mical didn't matter; it was that he simply was not ready.   
  
She did in fact know Atton's real name: It had come up the other evening as they sat in the cockpit and stared at the white lines of hyperspace as they zoomed past, both reclined in their chairs, feet on the dash and hands clasped together in the empty space between them.   
  
Jaq Levon Burtrand had been born the son of a wealthy industrialist: Jehrek Burtrand had been commissioned for years by the Republic to design and build spacecraft, land-cruisers, weaponry and life support systems for planets that had been recently colonized. His father was the quintessential businessman, running his extremely successful business while never quite stooping to the levels of Czerka while doing so, he managed to maintain a gleaming name in the industry, and he and his family had done well for it.   
  
When she asked why he had changed his name, Atton only laughed in that tired, self-deprecating fashion of his and fooled around with one of his coat pockets a little and said, "My father already had a name for himself that he had worked for by the time I enlisted, and pretty much everyone knew the name Burtrand, so I guess I just wanted to go and make my own name for myself. So rather than my uniform having the initials J. Burtrand stitched on it, I changed things so that I could be Atton Rand instead. Jil didn't matter… she never had to change her name because she was taken away to be a Jedi and they don't care much about names. The way I saw it, I didn't have any other choice but to live in that shadow of a name and the expectations that came with it, or try and set myself apart."   
  
And it just stuck. That was it. There was no mystery, no dark reason for an alias… only the desire to be unique.   
  
She had just opened her mouth to explain more when J.L. Burtrand himself popped his head around the corner of the galley.   
  
"Some guy on the comm. looking for you."   
  
Meetra instantly frowned and her expression matched Atton's confused visage.   
  
"In hyperspace? She said, standing from the table and abandoning her burnt coffee. "That shouldn't even be possible."   
  
Atton shrugged a little. "The signal is pretty chewed up but whoever is sending it somehow managed to get it through." He took the opportunity since he was in the kitchen to rummage for a snack. "Anyway, the signal is still open if you wanna go check it out. Let me tell you now, Surik: I'm not your damn P.R. agent."   
  
She wrinkled her nose and took her coffee back. "What?" She muttered as she slinked out of the kitchen, her toast cold in her fingers and her brow deeply furrowed when she finally sauntered into the cockpit, suspicion stoked by Atton's warning. She mentally rebuked herself when the screaming of the kettle down the hallway reminded her that she had just left Mical hanging.   
  
She dropped into Atton's seat and placed her remaining toast on the console, running a hand through her fringe, uncaring of the frightful way it was now probably sticking up. She took a sip of coffee and took the comm. off hold. The face of a young Twi'lek crackled through the cosmic interference.   
  
"Surik here." She said, leaning back.   
  
"Good morning, Miss Surik, my name is Javek'k En with A.U.M.C. The Alderaani Underground Media – "   
  
Meetra took another drink and let the coffee cup linger over her lips, hiding her mouth. "I'm aware of your outlet." She said, realizing exactly what was going on now and what Atton had meant in the kitchen.   
  
"You'll have to forgive us for the unsolicited communication... I understand that you used to have... people for this sort of thing but when the coalition heard of your involvement in the liberation of Khoonda, we had questions."   
  
She crossed her right leg over her knee and dragged her hand through her bangs again, "Yeah, see we're not really doing interviews right now." The words came out politely enough, but they were but a delicately crafted mask for the annoyance that boiled under them; the entire point of her mission was discretion. The last thing she needed right now was a media circus the likes that followed her during the war. Granted, at the time she was more than happy to oblige, with one bizarre media stunt after the other.   
  
She became aware of Atton entering the cockpit and he sat in the co-pilot seat, his own cup of coffee in hand as Meetra stared down the Twi'lek on the translucent Holo-screen that covered the majority of the window to the stars.   
  
"When did you return to Republic space?" The Twi'lek asked, disregarding Meetra's statement that she wasn't interested in being interviewed.   
  
She bit her lip behind the coffee mug and thought hard; this media coalition was an underground, Alderaani based outfit mostly run by journalism students and freelance writers. They had no real clout in the galaxy, and despite their idealistic intentions for a world of media that was honest and unbiased by politics, the A.U.M.C was never likely to gain much of a legitimate following apart from conspiracy theorists and political extremists.   
  
"I'm not answering that." She said, swirling the dark liquid in her mug. "You people realize the Jedi have a lot of enemies, right? Maybe posting video interviews of them on the HoloNet might hinder, rather than help?" She crossed her arms and stared at her knees in a bored, disinterested way: It was like pulling on a worn pair of leather gloves, speaking to the media again. She easily recalled the early days of her stammering and stuttering awkwardly in front of cameras and recording devices shoved in her face, struggling as she tried to find a less stupid looking way to hold a microphone while she spoke into it. Like anything else, it got easier with time and experience, and by the end of the war, she had two very deliberately separated media personas: One was the General – the woman who led: The one who did such strange things as stand stone still on a white marble block in the lobby of the senate building on Coruscant for three days, dressed and painted entirely in white as she stood as a welcome vigil for the Jedi who abandoned the Order and would soon arrive. This same persona was the one who turned out historical war-time speeches and was known as a fierce diplomat as well as a brave warrior. The other persona consisted of a badgered young woman who was ambushed as she walked down the streets of Onderon or Coruscant and they pulled and they tugged at her personal life and bled what they could from her, asking the same irritating questions over and over. This persona handled such intrusions with the same cold, detached, completely vague and disinterested quality Meetra controlled presently and it had been her most useful tool in keeping her head above water in a galaxy full of people who could find nothing better to do than speculate about what sort of toner she used on her skin in the morning or who she might be sleeping with.   
  
"Please just humour us, Miss Surik. Rumors of the return of the Great General has brought hope to many who supported your cause during the war. Specifically up for question; yourself and your treatment at the hands of the Jedi Order after the war."   
  
She glanced sideways at Atton and drank more coffee. She took her time answering by occupying her mouth with another bite of toast, which she chewed slower than she normally would as she gazed distantly into the corner of the room. She shifted slightly in the chair, filling the lingering silence with the sound of creaking leather.   
  
"Nah..." She began. "What we're doing here has nothing to do with that. You know I guess sometimes in life things just get really weird all around for everybody and my crew and I have ah... a lot to get done and really not much time to do it, so right now we're not really looking to start any sort of revolution or... or take any sort of political stance. Or do interviews." She laughed dryly at the end and set her empty cup down, occupying her now empty hands with the hem of her coat sleeve.   
  
"I see..." The Twi'lek said, completely nonplussed by her vaguely worded refusal to sit for a proper interview. "Do you think any other members of this crew you mention would be willing to speak with us?"   
  
Meetra looked at Atton, a private, rather sarcastic smile was shared between them.   
  
"I dunno." She laughed quietly. "I don't think so. Does my pilot want to do an interview?"   
  
Atton looked at his lap, smirked and shook his head, "No."   
  
"Yeah... no. I uh don't think any of the crew wants to be interviewed. Maybe if we all make it out of this alive one day one of us might be a bit chattier but ah... right now like I said we're all pretty busy with all this weirdness." She dug around in her pocket for a smoke and lit it, her finger hovering over the button that would disconnect the communication.   
  
"Wait!" Her finger was halted and she looked up, smoke curling around her face and burning her eyes from the coffin nail clenched in her lips. "One more question: You've already aided the citizens of Khoonda by strategizing and leading a battle plan coordinated with their militia to protect them against the mercenaries in the area... will you be returning there anytime soon to address the latest threat to the planet you were raised on?"   
  
"Newest threat?" She repeated, resting her arm on the chair and drawing on the smoke again. Any interest she had was not given away on the surface.   
  
"There are stories coming from Dantooine of young people disappearing mysteriously. One day they're there, the next they're not. The administrator's son is one of the missing. Rumour has it there's a dark Jedi holed up in the ruins of the academy, attempting to seduce young people to join the Sith. Of course, now with all of the mercenaries gone, the plunderers dare not go in there without protection, leaving it wide open to fester as a breeding ground for rumour and unverifiable information."   
  
Meetra flattened her fringe and pushed it up again, pausing to think and scrape her nails against the thick calluses worn up on her fingertips.   
  
"Is there any credence to these reports?"   
  
Javek'k shrugged. "There is truth that young ones are going missing. That is all we have confirmed."   
  
Meetra nodded and hauled on the cigarra again.   
  
"Thanks for the call, Javek'k." Before the Twi'lek could speak further, the connection was cut, and Meetra was on her feet in front of the galaxy map.   
  
"Turn us around." She said. "We're going back to Dantooine."   
  
"We're less than two days from Korriban." Atton said, sleep still ruling his voice. "Are you sure you want to blast all the way back across the galaxy for a rumour you heard from some university journalism student?"   
  
Meetra's eyes didn't leave the tiny glowing dot that represented Dantooine on the map.   
  
"No." She replied finally. "But can't you feel it? There is weight in the words the Twi'lek said and it echoes through the Force: Deception surrounds us." When he only looked at her with tired, vague eyes, she elaborated. "Things that have lain dormant for over a decade are coming back to me now that I'm helping you and..." Her eyes wandered over the map of the galaxy again in a curious, timed fashion. "Let's just say I am becoming fully aware of the filth that tries to compromise us." She continued, and Atton couldn't help but feel that the woman standing five feet away from him was more a General now than she had been in years. He also wondered if this character was here to stay. "Dantooine is a strategically important planet; not only is it the closest thing to a home I've ever had, but it is where the seeds of the Order will need to be re-sown in the future... allowing a dark presence to settle in at the academy would bode ill for that end. The disappearance of Khoonda citizens into the academy will also put a strain on relations between Khoonda and the Jedi that settle there in the future if nothing is done about it." She sighed and dropped the smouldering remnants of her smoke in the dregs of her coffee where it fizzled out with a sad hiss. "Korriban is a wasted planet filled with nothing but the dark side and ghosts of the past. If I know anything about ghosts, it's that they can wait. The living can't."   



	36. Chapter 36

"I haven't seen Lyle in weeks." There was a rattling of porcelain as the administrator set her cup on the saucer with a shaking hand. Her eyes were dark, sunken. Her skin was ashen; this woman hadn't slept in days.   
  
Meetra reached over the desk and topped up the harrowed woman's tea with sympathetic meeting of eyes.   
  
"I understand you're worried. Any mother in your place would be." She set the teapot down and leaned back, blowing on her own steaming hot cup as she did so. "On that note, how many others have gone missing?"   
  
The administrator cradled her forehead in her palm and stirred sugar into her tea. "Four. All from Khoonda and all within the last two weeks. Their manner of disappearance is what is most… troubling."   
  
"How do you mean?"   
  
"They…" Her breath caught and she stared out the window in silence until she could continue. "There have been no kidnappings, no signs of struggle, no evidence that the five who have gone missing did so against their will. It's as though they just… left."   
  
"And I'm assuming all attempts at communication have gone unanswered?"   
  
The administrator's tired eyes flicked up to Meetra's. "No, actually… for the most part, yes, but every so often I or one of the other families will get a reply from a child… these replies though… they're more disturbing than the silence. I – I… I broke down when I got one from Lyle." Her voice wavered and her eyes fell to the steam issuing from her tea.   
  
"What did it say?" Meetra prompted gently, reaching out to put her hand; scarred and calloused and strong over the trembling one of the frightened woman. "It's important for us to know as much as we can so we can deal with this threat as safely as possible. We want to get Lyle and the others back but I need you to stay strong for just a little while longer… believe me, I know what a monumental task that may seem, but a time will come where you can afford to be weak… right now is not it."   
  
Still pale, still frightened, the leader nodded once and forced herself to have a drink of tea. "He… I sent him a message, asking where he went, telling him that I loved him and if he could just give me some sign that he was alright… ease my worry, so to speak. Hours later a reply did indeed come, but it was not what I expected. Lyle has always been loyal. Family is as important as anything to him, so I knew right away that the words that had come to me were not his own."   
  
"What were they?"   
  
"The message read, 'Mother, I don't need your condescension and your false concern. You are a hypocrite and you need to stop worrying about me, for my salvation does not lie with you, it lies in the Force.'" Her lip trembled again and she drew a deep breath. "And that is the last I've heard from him. That was five days ago."   
  
Meetra drew her teeth over her lip and tapped her fingernails against the sides of her cup.   
  
"And the best lead we have to go on is the Enclave?"   
  
"There has been… activity there." The administrator began. "But a dark energy keeps out all who attempt to get close to the ruin. I've sent my best men to investigate and though none of them have been harmed, they all refuse to go near that place again."   
  
"You don't think there's just the slightest possibility that these kids all made a pact to go off and disappear and fool around with things they don't understand? That possibly in a week's time they will tire of the cold nights and lack of warm food and the comfort of home and return to your doorstep, un-bathed and bedraggled, richer in character for their stupidity?" Meetra watched the administrator's face go from exhausted to shocked, and immediately corrected her insensitivity. "I apologize, administrator. That was incredibly flippant of me. I'm only trying to be logical and perhaps put your mind at ease in some small way."   
  
"What would put my mind at ease is having my son back." She said, her voice considerably colder than before. "I'm sure the other four families share the same sentiment."   
  
"In that case I'll embark with my companions at once." Meetra offered a weak smile and drained her tea, standing from the plush office chair.   
  
"We are happy to supply you with whatever resources you require for success. We have a number of landspeeders that survived the battle if you care to use one of those to expedite travel."   
  
Meetra zipped up her jacket. "Actually, I was going to ask if you had mounts."   
  
The administrator furrowed her brow in confusion, "Well we do have a herd of Bol that belongs to the outpost but they're primary use is for farming…"   
  
"They'll do fine for my purposes. I require three." When the administrator still looked sceptical, Meetra explained. "I don't have any particular fondness for landspeeders. The openness of the vehicle and the velocity at which they operate make me… uncomfortable, among other things."   
  
A smirk broke the stressed visage of the administrator. "I never imagined Jedi would be prone to something as simple as motion sickness."   
  
"Oh no, we're full of quirks and surprises, motion sickness being only one of them." Meetra shook the woman's hand and made for the door. "Good day, administrator."   
  
She entered the lobby and both Atton and Mical rose from their seats at the same time in a way that made Meetra shake her head inwardly and bite back a laugh; she nearly ran her hand over the top of her head to see if someone had placed a crown there and declared her queen when she wasn't paying attention.   
  
"Off we go, gentlemen." She said briskly, exiting the compound and pulling on a pair of leather gloves.   
  
"We're going after the young ones then?" Mical asked, falling into step on one side of Meetra, while Atton followed slightly further behind on her other side (but not before discreetly brushing a hand across her flank.)   
  
"Yup." She said shortly, confidently as she circled the building and hurried her pace towards the Bol pens.   
  
"Do we know for certain this is a dark Jedi?" He pressed.   
  
"What do your feelings tell you?" She asked over her shoulder as she snapped the gloves closed at her wrists. "The cause of this is clear to me." She let Mical chew on the question and turned her attention to the dark haired man over her shoulder. "And what of your feelings, sir?"   
  
"Is this why you're so excited? You're acting like you just won some sort of contest for a year long stay on some resort planet." Sarcasm and quiet humour crept into Atton's voice and Meetra subtly lifted her eyes to the sky and let them roll down again.   
  
Truth be told, she did sort of feel that way. For the first time since she had returned to Republic space, she felt like she actually knew what was going on. She felt properly armed and prepared for the situation the three of them were about to undertake and that in itself was immense relief. Also contributing to her confidence was the fact that she had taken both Atton and Mical with her and so far there had been minimal sassing between the pair of them; Atton understood that Meetra called for Mical's presence because he was familiar with the ruins of the Enclave, and Mical understood that Atton came along because being under Meetra's tutelage required as much hands on experience with the Force as possible.   
  
Oh, and she had been given permission to ride a Bol: A treat she had not enjoyed in nearly fifteen years, back in her days of freedom and youth and wanton adventures in the vast plains.   
  
"It may surprise you both to learn this situation has nothing to do with a dark Jedi." She approached the Bol pen and caught the attention of the rancher watching over the animals, protecting them from the Kath hounds. "I have permission from administrator Terena Adare to borrow three of your Bol." She peered past the keeper and into the pens; her mood lifted further: The creatures were healthy looking and well-fed.   
  
The rancher looked apprehensive only for a moment before he recognized Meetra from the battle. One the realization passed over his eyes, he wasted no time in rustling up three sets of reins and a bit for each Bol. He assisted Meetra in readying each beast before letting Mical and Atton into the pen.   
  
"Stop!" Meetra cried out, pushing her hand through the air in Atton's direction, stopping him cold with the Force.   
  
"What?" He snapped in annoyance, stepping back from her invisible barrier.   
  
"You just about ended up ankle deep in a pile of Bol shit, that's what." She said, dropping her eyes and her hand. "You've not been around large animals much, hey?"   
  
"No, actually." He said, glaring at the brown pile of filth he had nearly trodden on. "I like speeders. They don't dump everywhere."   
  
Meetra glanced out of her periphery and saw Mical fiddling with the reins of his Bol, and though his back was to them, she could see the silent quakes of laughter that shook his shoulders. Meetra's eyes turned back to Atton and she smiled; he was less than impressed with this mode of transportation, and he made no secret of it.   
  
"It'll be fun. I promise." She put stress on the last word for it had taken on a rather unique and special meaning for the two of them since the last night spent at Atton's apartment. She unbuckled her sword-belt and started re-purposing it so that it hung over her shoulder, leaving it clear to use even as she rode. When she was ready, she gathered the reins of her Bol in one hand and leapt lightly onto its thick-skinned back, waiting for Atton to join herself and Mical who had mounted his already still looking rather smug.   
  
"Why? Why not a landspeeder?" Atton seethed as he tried to mirror Meetra's movements, gathering the reins in one hand and attempting to hoist himself onto the Bol. Unfortunately, despite his most valiant attempts, leaping onto a living creature was not the same as scrambling up solid buildings and structures and every time he picked up a leg to try and swing over the Bol, the animal let out a frenzied huff and shuffled its hindquarters away from Atton. After a good dozen tries, Atton dropped the reins in frustration and glared at Meetra, wounded pride evident in his scowl.   
  
"You can't possibly be giving up so easily." She said lightly, resting her elbows on the neck of her own Bol, playing with the reins between her leather fingertips.   
  
He glared at her and she knew exactly how furious she was making him, but she had chosen Bol for a reason. She wasn't prone to motion sickness at all and a landspeeder certainly would have gotten them to the Enclave faster, but lessons learned in real time were the best kind, and this opportunity presented itself as ideal: Today, Atton would learn that being a Jedi meant being adaptable to discomfort. If she ever managed to get him on the bloody animal, he'd have more to complain about than he did already. This opportunity also served to teach the virtues of patience and grace; all he was doing right now was embarrassing himself by having a fit – everyone knew he hadn't ridden a Bol before, so of course no one expected him to naturally know how to mount and control one. All he had to do was calm down and exhibit some sort of patience and acceptance at his situation, so Meetra stayed leaning against her Bol until he did.   
  
He tried and tried and tried and failed again and it wasn't until the Bol finally started getting fed up and properly knocked him over on his last attempt that Meetra intervened, sliding off her Bol and helping Atton off the ground.   
  
"How about I just run behind you?" He panted angrily. "I'll probably be better off doing that."   
  
"Don't be ridiculous." Meetra said patiently, pulling the reins up from the ground and holding them out to Atton. "You know nothing of these creatures, let alone this one, right?"   
  
"I know I hate them."   
  
"Stop that." She chided gently. "You sound like a child."   
  
She pushed the reins into his hand when he wouldn't take them and turned to the Bol; its eyes were wide and its pupils were dilated. It huffed in agitation and shuffled a few steps further away.   
  
"This animal is just as unfamiliar with you as you are with it. For you to come around and just start trying to climb on it without any sort of measurable intention only confused it and the more pissed off you got about it, the more pissed off it got about you." She reached out and ran her fingers down the snout of the Bol, not hesitating when it snorted and jerked its head away. "Honestly, how would you feel if some asshole kept kneeing you in the kidney and yelling about it in some bizarre language?"   
  
"Sounds like my last visit to Mos Eisley." He muttered in agreement.   
  
She smiled; he was getting it now. She took the reins a little higher from where Atton held them and gently tightened her grip on them so there was no slack and the Bol had to move forward. It took a single step, and then another and she reached out with her other hand and stroked the jaw of the creature, avoiding eye contact with it as she did so. It took her a minute, but she was able to soothe the creature to the state it had been before.   
  
"The Force allows us to enter the minds of animals as well as people. Animal minds are different though; they act purely on instinct. There are no walls, there are no tricks or defences or deliberately placed deceptions. Only instinctual feelings such as hunger, anger, fear… self-preservation is at the forefront of any creature's mind." She continued to soothe the Bol as she continued. "If you make your intentions clear to this creature and exhibit nothing but peace and calm towards it, it will have no reason to fear you."   
  
"And how do I do that? Write it a poem?" Atton shot a dirty look at Mical.   
  
"You feel the life in this Bol, right? You can sense the ebb and flow of the Force in it and around it; what makes it, it. To calm this animal and keep it that way, you have to first be calm and peaceful as I said, and then let your own Force flow into the Bol."   
  
"Manipulate it, is what you mean. Get into its head and trick it."   
  
She could have smacked him.   
  
"There's a fine line between manipulation and what we're doing here. I haven't tricked this fellow." She let the reins drop to the ground and the Bol made no move to flee; it only gnawed at some hay on the earth contentedly. "I've only eased this creature's fear and reasoned with it in a way it understood, rather than wasting hours trying to explain to it with words that I mean it no harm." She bent and picked the reins up, shoving them into Atton's hands. "Now stop doubting yourself and get on the Bol."   
  
She walked away and mounted her own again. Atton drew a deep, grounding breath and did as Meetra said. The idea of pushing into the mind of an animal was no less disturbing to him that the mind of a human, but there was a marked difference in the way the Force lived in this beast. From the second he stepped forward, its pupils widened again and he felt the tension building again as the creature's heart started racing. It was a stupid animal that had nothing to be afraid of.   
  
It was an animal that had nothing to be afraid of.   
  
It had nothing to be afraid of.   
  
It has nothing to be afraid of.   
  
You have nothing to be afraid of.   
  
He reached out and touched the muscled shoulder of the Bol, letting his fingers linger for a few moments before letting them travel to its smooth neck where it allowed him to stroke it a few times. Deciding he was ready, he moved the reins up in his hand slightly and threw a leg over the back of the animal, surprised when he found himself sitting atop the beast. He looked over to Meetra to see her beaming at him from her own steed.   
  
"Finally." She grinned. "Can we have fun with this now?" She didn't wait for a reply before digging her heels into the sides of her Bol and shooting out of the pens. Mical did the same and Atton swallowed hard before following suit, uttering silently something that may have been some sort of prayer.   



	37. Chapter 37

"She said there was something keeping people from going in." Meetra mused, sliding off her Bol and stepping lightly through the grass, practiced eyes sweeping from side to side as she routinely for any evidence of mines or traps in the long grass. "But I don't sense any electronic interference like that of a shield generator or sentry droids." She bent and scooped up a handful of small rubble pieces.   
  
"So what now, we stand out here and shout until someone comes looking?" Atton said, dismounting his Bol rather clumsily but still maintaining some semblance of poise as he lit a smoke and tilted his head to the sky, exhaling a cloud of smoke rather heavily.   
  
Meetra just shook her head and turned away, towards the enclave, muttering, "This is stupid. This is child's play." She lobbed a chunk of rubble experimentally at the ruined building and the sky about fifteen yards from where she stood lit up briefly and shimmered before fading to darkness again. She made a derisive sound in the dark.   
  
"Care to fill us in? The excitement is killing me." Atton quipped dryly.   
  
"Zealots." She hissed into the blackness. "I love dealing with zealots." She tossed another chunk of rubble into the air and kicked it with the toe of her boot in the direction of the invisible force keeping them out. It bounced away and the shield glimmered faintly once again. "I suspected it as soon as the administrator told us what the messages from the missing kids were like: There's no dark lord lurking in there. Just some wayward idiot who's likely Force sensitive and has deluded himself into thinking he's a Jedi."   
  
"People like that exist?"   
  
"You never have to travel far in any one direction to find someone who does harm by trying to do good. Zealots though... they're annoying, and to a certain extent, they can be quite dangerous seeing as they are not in any way properly trained to yield the Force in any responsible capacity. Give them access to someone easily manipulated and vulnerable and they will twist that person without a care." She clapped her gloved hands, rubbing them together like some sort of witch about to immerse a careless traveller into a boiling pot of stew.   
  
"I'm a little bit disturbed by how lightly you seem to be taking this." Mical chimed in.   
  
"Lightly?" Meetra repeated. "On the contrary; I take this sort of thing very seriously. Whoever is behind this is using the Force and its laws and tenets as a means to manipulate these kids. I'm keen to put a stop to it is all." She took a few steps forward and stood toe to toe with the Force barricade that prevented them from getting any closer. "Starting with this sad excuse of a barrier..." She pushed out with her hands and her mind against the invisible conglomeration of matter that held her back and was able to muscle past it with little effort: Whoever made it may have been able to do so and have it be effective enough to prevent intruders from sneaking around, but it was a brittle and sloppy craft when put side by side with the inherent discipline and strength of a Jedi who had been born and raised such.   
  
With the barrier dropped, she beckoned Atton and Mical forward.   
  
"The air still feels... crackly." Atton observed, glancing around warily. "I have a bad feeling about this."   
  
"We're not alone." Meetra said in a hushed tone, quietly sliding her blade free and crouching low, advancing in that sleuthing, cat-like manner of hers towards the crumbled entrance of the enclave.   
  
"You're not going to hurt any of the children, right?" Mical whispered behind her.   
  
"Did you hit your head when no one was looking?" Atton snarked. "Do you actually think she'd revert to something as completely over the top as infanticide?"   
  
"That's a big word." Mical whispered coolly. "Try not to strain yourself, Atton."   
  
"Guys. Shut up and focus on what we need to be doing right now. Mical, I'm not going to kill anybody, especially not children. Atton... just... just shush."   
  
A night-time reconnaissance mission with two bickering men... how quaint.   
  
"Stop!" A voice cut out of the blackness. "Who's there?"   
  
"Ahhh... delivery for I.C. Wiener." She announced, standing straight and holding her hands in the air, but not dropping her blade.   
  
"Drop your weapons. All of you."   
  
"Not until I see what I'm dealing with." Meetra taunted calmly.   
  
A teenage girl emerged from the shadows, her own rusted blade held in her shaking hand, its pointed edge directed at Meetra's soft belly.   
  
"How did you get here?" She demanded, suddenly remembering herself, she waved the sword. "Your weapons! Drop them."   
  
Meetra looked up at the sky and bent forward, setting her weapon silently on the pitted ground; they may have been caught, but she knew her chances of outwitting this young girl were far better off if she made as little racket as possible. The soft scraping sound on the ground behind her told her that Atton and Mical had done the same.   
  
"Now answer me: How did you get here?"   
  
"I walked."   
  
"You're lying."   
  
Meetra's mouth lifted at one side; indeed she was. It was a simple, unembellished lie, but one that gave her another piece of the puzzle. This girl was Force sensitive and was able to sense the deliberate deception Meetra levelled at her. Self-aware, yes... skilled, perhaps. Meetra had been at this Jedi thing for a very long time though.   
  
"You're right." She admitted. "My friends and I here rode Bol across the night-time plains and I broke your little barricade to tell you that you and all the others need to go home."   
  
It was a calculated risk: Hormones, popular media, music... teenagers were so volatile and telling one to do anything was a bit of a gamble, but this girl and however many were left needed to realize the danger they were involved with.   
  
"You broke the barricade?" The girl said derisively, still pointing the sword at Meetra (completely necessary, Meetra thought, as she was itching to give her a good shove with the Force.) "Impossible."   
  
"Mmmm... no. I mean, for your average rifle toting farmer, yes, I'm sure your glimmer little wall was completely confounding. Unfortunately for you, someone who actually knows what they're doing happened by this place and found it to be a good attempt, but laughable none the less." She took a step forward, her hands open in front of her.   
  
"Stay back." The would-be padawan snarled, backing down despite her sharpness. "He said there would be people like you. Ones that would come to take us away. Ones that would pretend."   
  
"Pretend what?" Meetra frowned.   
  
"Pretend to be Jedi."   
  
"Jedi is a rather... broad term." Meetra coaxed. "I myself certainly don't pretend to be one." She rested her hand over her heart as though swearing an oath.   
  
"Then why are you here? Why are you trying to trick me into leaving?"   
  
Meetra sighed patiently and sat into her hip. "Because your family misses you and they're very worried about you. Regardless of what happens in your life or what you choose to believe in, more than anything they want to see you safe and right now, they have no way of knowing that."   
  
"Well good thing you came along then, you can deliver the message that I am indeed safe."   
  
"Oh no, you're coming back with us." Meetra promised. "But first I need to speak with the one in charge around here."   
  
"You must think I'm stupid, Jedi if you think I'll just let you walk in."   
  
"Listen to yourself!" Meetra exclaimed, her voice rising only a notch above the patient whisper it had been moments before. "Listen to what you're saying! Stop for a minute and think about what you're doing! You claim all of this sovereignty over your own life by throwing a tantrum and running away from your family, hurting and worrying them and in the process, running right into the trap of someone who is using you and manipulating you to his own ends: It takes no Jedi Master to see that you're the one being tricked here, youngling." She took a rather threatening step towards the girl; she may not have been draped in robes and bearing lightsabers anymore, but she did still have a very dominating presence. The two tall men at her side likely added to the threat. "Doesn't that piss you off? Doesn't that make you angry, that someone would care so little for yourself and your family that they could take you away and still sleep well at night knowing what they've done... what pain they've caused? Your family is going to be there for you no matter what happens in your life: They will love you without question, they will sacrifice without a thought whatever it takes to make sure you are happy and safe, they would give anything for you yet you disservice them by rejecting these truths for the twisted words of a madman." She waved a finger through the air and pointed at Atton, ignoring the girl's flinch at her sudden movement: She was becoming impassioned; this topic was making her angry. "Him. This guy. He had a sister and she never really knew him on account of being taken away by the Jedi to be trained at a young age. No memories, hardly any kinship or contact. Know what she did? She died for him when the chance to do so arose. She died for a brother she didn't even know in order to save his life. I'm sure this fool preaches to you the Force as he wants you to hear it, but for any Force user, any Jedi out there, it should strike as simple common sense that abandonment of your own family for lunacy is a poor idea."   
  
It fell very quiet once Meetra finished her tirade. It was easy to understand why she was so successful at rallying people to her cause; she spoke passionately but with control. She didn't shout, but her voice was loud and clear. She rambled a bit, but every sentence was well thought out and got to the point practically.   
  
"Step aside, youngling." She said finally, her blade flying obediently into her open palm from the ground. "Or so help me it'll be the flat of my sword against your ass."   
  
Tears gushed down the girl's freckled face and hit her chest.   
  
"I do want to go home, miss. But he won't let me. He won't let any of us. He says we have to stay and rebuild the Jedi Order because they're all gone." Her lip quivered and revealed exactly how young she really was. How innocent. "Are they all gone? That can't be true, right?"   
  
The desire to set aside her weapon and embrace the girl was steeled by festering irritation that coiled in her insides. This poor thing had been so taken in by some opportunistic crook that it made Meetra feel positively ill.   
  
"It is no lie." She said. "But this endeavour is not how the Order will be saved… leave that to me. Now please... stand aside. Let me end this."   
  
The girl dropped her head and nodded, the sword in her hand wilting to her side like a leaf in the first frost of winter.   
  
"You'll find him in the remains of the council chamber... be careful. There are others like me."   
  
Meetra nodded and walked past the would-be-Jedi.   
  
"You'll find our Bols behind that ridge... go wait with them. We won't be long." She called out before disappearing into the blackness of the ruin with her companions behind her. Meetra trusted the girl would not sound any further alarms. She sensed the fear and the anxiety in the teenager; she genuinely was trapped by this zealot.   
  
Having already been here recently and having grown up here as a child, Meetra navigated easily through the dark hallways, although she did observe that the creep-factor of the ruin was magnified intensely when the sun was gone. Things crawled past them in the dark with clicking pincers and beastly squeals and the unsettling calm in the ruin brought out the sensation that one was being buried alive in the thick, nearly touchable darkness.   
  
Cautiously, she ventured into the room she knew to be the council chambers, allowing her senses to make up for her blindness.   
  
Get them.   
  
A voice whispered through the Force and Meetra felt her feet leave the ground and heard Atton and Mical fall around her as the leather of her jacket scraped across the gritty floor.   
  
Blind and disoriented she cast around with both the Force and her hands, finding equilibrium again and hauling herself to her feet as quickly as she could, crouched low with her blade held defensively in front of her, fighting to see in the darkness.   
  
She felt for Atton's mind and then Mical's, relieved to find them both safe despite the tumult that had been unleashed on them. It didn't end there; continuously she felt herself and her friends being pushed at and prodded by gales of the Force, helplessly blind in the dark.   
  
How many of them were there?   
  
One? Two? Her mind couldn't focus long enough to pinpoint the sources of the power and no one had yet spoken.   
  
This needs to stop now.   
  
She reached out with her mind and grabbed the first living thing that she could find, willing it to freeze instantly where it stood.   
  
Whoops. Sorry Mical. She wordlessly apologized as she moved on to the next living essence it the room, crushing it into static submission as well; this mind was different. This mind was unfamiliar and she knew it was the mind of one of the missing children.   
  
She cast out one more time, deliberately moving around the chamber as much as possible, aware of the graceless way she stumbled over chairs and tripped over cracked pavement. The more she moved, the harder she'd be to fight off and subdue. She started getting the hang of this game and in the madness she skipped over Atton's mind like a stone across water, touching it only for the briefest moment before flying to the next one she touched, which she immediately froze.   
  
There were three of them left in the room that were still capable of moment; she, Atton and the one who could only be their suspected trickster.   
  
Meetra felt the wave coming through the Force and held up her own hands in the darkness to deflect it.   
  
"Behind me." She ordered Atton and she felt him scramble to safety as she pushed against the invisible weight of another Force user. She had to admit her opponent was quite strong and was putting up more resistance than she had anticipated: She felt her boot heels scratching against the ground as she lost ground to her foe.   
  
"What should I do?" Atton called over the maelstrom of sound.   
  
"Nothing. Stay there." She barked, pushing harder, thinking what to do next.   
  
Her opponent made a mistake; a snapping sound broke the air and two blue lightsabers cut through the darkness.   
  
Idiot.   
  
He had revealed himself; only an untrained fool would have the gall to blow a perfectly reasonable advantage over a foe to brag about his ability to wave around a lightsaber.   
  
"Push!" Meetra shrieked, still weighing against the Force.   
  
"What?!"   
  
"Did he deafen you? I said push! With the Force!" She gritted her teeth, "Now, Atton!"   
  
Relieved when he didn't argue any further and sighed before heeding her order, Meetra seized the opportunity to close the distance between herself and their foe while he was distracted. With one fast movement that looked much simpler than it was, she knocked the gleaming blades down from their offensive hold and jammed the hilt of her sword into the gut of the person who wielded them. A muffled gag issued from the darkness. "Atton, start squeezing." She said over her shoulder as her assailant, illuminated only by the lightsabers, began to rise again and re-form for attack. A cracked groan came this time and Meetra batted aside the lightsabers with ease once again. "Do you yield?" She asked the zealot.   
  
"I will not yield to a fallen Jedi…"   
  
"Atton, squeeze harder." She said lightly, waiting for what she now knew was a pattern; this moron was going to continue standing and trying to fight. She let him gain his feet again, knowing it'd take him a while longer due to the constricting pressure of the Force that was wrapped around him. "A fallen Jedi?" She repeated, once again knocking the clumsy attack aside and whacking the flat of her blade against what she knew to be the delicate kidney area of the man's abdomen; she was in no way fighting to kill. The lightsabers came up again and she threw the man back with the Force, tearing the lightsabers from his hands as she did this.   
  
They came to rest in her hands and she looked down at the humming blue blades for only a moment, revelling in the undeniable familiarity and power she felt flowing through them.   
  
"I don't think you have the slightest idea who you're dealing with." She said darkly, her glowing reflection shone in the man's wide, fear-filled eyes as he tried to scramble away. "Do you yield?" She repeated.   
  
"I… I yield."   
  
She shook her head and cast him into stasis as well before turning to Atton and switching off the lightsabers. With the leader in stasis, the permeating darkness in the room seemed to lift and she was able to at least make out the shapes that composed the room and everyone in it. It appeared to have been a weak fear technique that made the place so desperately dark. "Take him out to the Bols. I will be out shortly with the others."   
  
Atton nodded wordlessly and set about tossing the limp body of the zealot over his shoulder, able to pick up on the volatility of Meetra at this moment; her knuckles were white around the lightsabers she held in her hands. Hands he knew hadn't held such weapons in over a decade.   
  
Her fingers twitched around the hilts of the weapons and she considered loosening her grasp around them and letting them drop to the broken floor. Instead she waited until Atton had left and slipped them inside the inner pockets of her jacket.   



	38. Chapter 38

It had been three days since she had eaten a proper meal. She had used what little currency she had on cigarras and another score, ignoring the rumbling in her belly in favour of the shakes that rippled through her fingers and the headache that tumbled around her skull before she ripped another fix through her veins.   
  
Slumped in an alley on Tatooine, Meetra Surik begged for coin with a hand outstretched, bone-thin fingers wrapped around a dented durasteel cup, hoping that someone might stroll by and take pity on her and provide her the means to get her the hit she so desperately craved.   
  
Tourniquet… gotta make it tight, halfway up the arm… heat it… heat it… but don't make it bubble! No. Bubbling is bad. Bubbling wastes it…   
  
She repeated the mantra over and over in her mind. Where once the Jedi code brought her solace and serenity, this sordid repetition had taken its place.   
  
"Cred for food?" She croaked to a passer-by, rattling her cup forlornly. "I just need to get back home." She said, but it was too late and the stranger was already gone.   
  
Needle next… only idiots use dirty needles…   
  
I don't know just where I'm going…   
  
"Hutts took my husband." She pointed out to the next stranger who remorselessly passed her by the same as the last.   
  
She heaved a sigh, regretting the stink of herself as she did so. There was a detachment in her movements now that she had never quite been able to achieve with that first line of the Code. Cause and effect, she supposed.   
  
All I need is some money. If I get some money I can get cleaned up and go to the cantina. They won't let me in right now… but if I cleaned my hair and my face and got some new clothes… I bet I'd find a nice man there…   
  
"Please sir, I'm a freed slave?"   
  
Foosteps, blind to her existence.   
  
Oh how we have fallen, love. She mused poisonously, staring into her cup. Couldn't get the entire fucking galaxy off your tail at one point and now you're not even worth a second thought. She spat dryly onto the sand next to her, grateful for the fact that at least she had found shade today.   
  
When the blood begins to flow… when it shoots up the droppers neck… when I'm closing in on death…   
  
"Heeeeeee…." The insubstantial laugh of a lost child fell from her cracked and scabbed lips. It occurred to her that she could go try and turn tricks on the street, but no one; not even the filthiest of brigands wanted a woman as haggard as she, with her scoured face and her closely cropped hair and hollow, bloodshot eyes. No man wanted to count her ribs as he ran her hands across her emaciated waist… she would score little cred as a whore. Not in her current shape.   
  
But cred was what she needed.   
  
She had to find a way.   
  
"These bugs. Fuck!" She scraped at her own skin and shook her head to ward away invisible insects. "But what can I do? What can we do? What would we do?" She whispered, tapping her chin with a yellowed finger. "No jobs for someone like me… I don't serve tables. Meetra Surik does not serve tables. But… other than that a thing like me is good only for a slave and those don't get paid…"   
  
She squinted at the sun.   
  
Find a vein. You have tiny veins, girl. That's okay, we'll find one…   
  
Her eyes shook around in her skull until she realized her light had been blocked.   
  
"Credit to spare?" She asked without thinking.   
  
"Oh look… a back-alley slag." A cool voice said and Meetra squinted against the light to try and make out the face of the person who had actually taken the time to notice her.   
  
"I'm… I'm stranded here. My friends all left and they took all I had with them. I can't get back… I'm from Coruscant. Can you help me?"   
  
"You pitiful slut." The voice said. "You think I don't know a spice-whore when I see one?"   
  
"I… I'm not a whore." Meetra lied. "I'd never do anything like that." She said, though the promise left her voice as she said the words.   
  
"You're sure?" The male voice said quietly. "You're sure you wouldn't?"   
  
Her dry tongue darted over her dry lips. "What are you asking?"   
  
"Come with me." He said gently, coaxingly, holding a hand out to her.   
  
She considered for only a moment before taking it.   
  
She regretted the decision instantly, the second she was shoved roughly against the wall.   
  
"Hey!" She cried against the hand covering her mouth, squirming weakly against the other hand that pawed at her tattered clothing as she was pressed harder against the gritty walls of the building, her face scraping against dry plaster, her thin skin tearing at the violence suddenly being inflicted upon her.   
  
"Stop fighting, slag. I'll kill you dead without a second thought." Her attacker grunted in her ear, his breath washing over her sun-baked face. A muffled scream was drawn from Meetra's lips when he plunged a hand down the front of her pants. She clenched her teeth tightly reflexively, biting into soft, healthy flesh as she did so. The man snarled and moved his spare hand to her throat, wrapping his fingers tightly around her airway as he continued his unwanted ministrations.   
  
This wasn't what I wanted. This is absolutely not what I was looking for today…   
  
When the smack begins to flow… connected… free… happy for a little while…   
  
You'd be dead by now, in a different time. In a different time, different place… I would have destroyed a thing like you without any effort. Back then… back then I was free. Back then… I was myself. Back then I was Meetra Surik.   
  
"I warned you once already to stop fighting!" The man snapped, ripping Meetra away from her indifferent place of safety by spinning her around and backhanding her so hard that she toppled to the sand beneath her. As she was lifting herself from her piteous place in the dirt, she heard something that brought her back to some form of clarity; the snapping hiss of a lightsaber. He had drawn a weapon. A Jedi weapon.   
  
She glared up at him, spitting out some sand that caked the inside of her mouth.   
  
"You're no Jedi." She said in a dry voice. "Where did you get that?" She pressed her back against the wall when he pointed the tip of the green blade at her throat.   
  
"Never you mind where I got it, slag. If you want to stay in one piece, you're going to turn around and listen to me."   
  
Then you put your own blood in the needle… it mixes with the drug…   
  
"Give me it!" She commanded. A lightsaber was a nearly priceless item. On a planet like Tattooine it would fetch her a good bit of money.   
  
"Oh I'll give it to you alright." The man with the lightsaber said, lunging forward just as Meetra launched herself at him.   
  
A tussle ensued and they rolled in the sand, exchanging hits and bites and knees and elbows like the animals they were until Meetra stood from the dust, saber clutched in her fist, standing victorious over her would-be rapist.   
  
He had to be dead by now.   
  
She certainly hadn't wasted any effort pummelling him to death with her bare fists despite having scratched the lightsaber from his hands early in the fight. Now it was wrapped in her hand, humming slightly, glowing brightly in the dust settling around her feet. She panted heavily, partly out of exhilaration that she once again held a weapon that had once made her great, and partly out of sheer, twisted glee for knowledge of how much spice this would get her.   
  
Of course food and new clothes were a necessity now that she had the money to clean herself up again.   
  
Or…   
  
I could stop. I could not do this anymore.   
  
What a stupid thought.   
  
No really. I could not… have to do this anymore. I could not be sick all the time, or broke, or… sad.   
  
Sad.   
  
Meetra Surik felt her lip tremble and she watched tears fill her eyes from a weak little place that seemed locked away terribly deep within. She looked at the still form of the person she had murdered not in self defines, but rather cold blooded hunger. "Oh…" The tiny sound fell from her lips and she fell to her knees on the cool sand and sobbed into her hand for a time, still hanging onto the green lightsaber. "Oh…"   
  
Thank the Force I'm as good as dead…   
  
Thank the Force that I'm not aware…   
  
And thank the Force that I just don't care.   
  
Meetra Surik stood finally and switched off the lightsaber, pocketing it quickly and weaving out of the alley, in search of her next escape.   



	39. Chapter 39

Dantooine had been blessed with a gentle fall that year it seemed; the grass was still soft underneath her palms as she curled her fingers between the blades that coated the earth like the fur of a great beast. She stared out across the plains from her sitting position atop her favourite hill; the one she had argued with Atton on last time they were here.   
  
There was no more argue left in her now; only calm acceptance and understanding. There was terror in the understanding… it gripped its greasy fingers around her stomach and squeezed, but she fought it away with every stubbornly made, exemplary indication of placid control that issued from her nose in long, measured bursts.   
  
She wore headphones.   
  
Meetra didn't want to hear the world around her right now. Meetra wanted to hear music. She wanted to find one piece of musical creation that summed up exactly how she felt at this moment. Someone had to have made it, right? Ageless years and an endless library of creation meant that someone, somewhere had felt like this and put it to music and poetry, right?   
  
A tear rolled down Meetra Surik's cheek as she watched the sun sink into the sky.   
  
For everything that had happened in her life, for every person she had become and un-become over the years – orphaned youngling, wild padawan, wonder-child Jedi General, Exile, drug addict, murderer, she had tip-toed around the reality of it all; there was more to everything.   
  
She could have killed the bigot in the temple with ease. She could have repaid his arrogance in spades for his actions, but instead did what was right and just and handed him over to the authorities.   
  
She looked down at the two lightsabers that sat in her lap: They were crude and made by inexperienced hands, but they worked well enough, and now they belonged to her.   
  
Her own handcrafted lightsaber had been left in the centre obelisk of the Council chambers as her final act of rebellion on the day she was exiled – it now resided in the hands of Atris.   
  
The next lightsaber she held was torn from the hands of a man that she murdered in cold blood.   
  
She had torn these from a man's hands as well, but she had used the Force to do it.   
  
She had let him live.   
  
"With the Force I am better." She breathed nearly silently. "With the Force I am not an animal."   
  
She buried her face in her knees and listened to music and thought hard.   
  
It may very well be left to me to rebuild the Order. The thought had been prodding her like quills on a cactus, but actually acknowledging the reality of the matter didn't make it any less spiny. I don't want this responsibility, but I sense that a time is coming where once again what I want is not going to matter. Mical is strong in the Force, and I also feel whisperings of it in Mira and Bao-Dur…   
  
Calm blue waves danced into her perception and she lifted her head to see familiar boot-clad feet standing next to her. She pulled the headphones away and looked up at Atton.   
  
"Sorry to disappoint you," She said, turning the volume up and setting the headphones on the ground next to her so they could both hear the music. "But it's not Journey."   
  
"A man like me is always looking to broaden his horizons." He smirked, sitting next to her. Meetra was grateful that he seemed to sense her need for space right now and therefore placed himself a couple of feet away from her. Silence hung between them for a moment, as comfortable and blue-green as it had been from nearly the start.   
  
"So… I guess you don't wanna talk about it, huh?"   
  
"No…" She replied slowly, carefully. "It's not that. I just… need a bit of solitude."   
  
"So that's why we keep ending up here? It's the only place in this whole galaxy where you can feel alone, isn't it?"   
  
Meetra glanced sideways at Atton, knowing fully that her eyes must still be tinted red from the tears that stung them earlier.   
  
"Yeah Atton… something like that." She said quietly before looking back to the setting sun.   
  
The sky was a Neapolitan of pinks and oranges and yellows that had won out over the uni-toned blue of mid-day not too long ago. The air was still and clear and they could see for miles.   
  
She looked down when she heard the quiet sloshing of liquid and saw that Atton was holding out a flask of whiskey to her. She took it gratefully and unscrewed the lid, taking a sip and smiling privately at the warmth that almost instantly returned to her chilled fingers.   
  
"Thanks." She whispered, handing it back, pulling her hand away as soon as the transfer of the item was complete.   
  
"How are you?" He asked and Meetra knew it was less of an open question and more of a prompt.   
  
"I'm good." She said after thinking for a moment. "I'm really good. I uh… just after everything that happened at the Temple… I needed a moment to sort of catch alight my breath." She dragged a hand through her hair; it was getting greasy and matted again… she never was one for aesthetics. "I dunno how well to explain it but I just feel like I know what's being asked of me now. I've spent so much of my life chasing things: Chasing something that resembled a family in the Order, chasing friends like Revan and Alek, chasing glory and recognition from people that just… didn't actually fucking matter." She allowed a disdainful huff of air to fall from her nose. "After that I chased pain because I thought it was all that I deserved. I chased the Force after it was ripped from me because back then it was the only thing that made me strong. When I learned that wouldn't work, I chased misery and death." She paused for another drink of whiskey. "But for all of that chasing I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being chased by something else."   
  
"By what?"   
  
There was attentiveness and concern in Atton's voice that was rarely there and Meetra didn't overlook it. In fact, she took it and clung to it… she wanted to press it to her chest and dance with it till the universe fell in on itself. When did this happen? When did you start caring so much? When did I of all people deserve those words and this tone, even after all of this?   
  
She laughed, deprecating the sincerity of her words, "It's really so stupid. It sounds so incredibly stupid even in my own head, but maybe you get it. I dunno… you know me better than anyone else since I've come back and… and I think I just feel like now is the time for me to change something huge in the galaxy. My energy and my mind and my intentions and goals have always been so undirected and sort of jutting out in whatever direction they feel like at any given moment. I feel like right now I have a kind of clarity that I've never had before; I've learned things about myself in the past few months that I didn't even think were possible. I am a good leader, I am strong with people, I am a talented communicator, I am a fucking intelligent person… and I've wasted so much of my fucking life trying to be everything else and at the same time trying to please everyone else. I'm done with the fucking song and dance, you know? This isn't rebellion, this isn't an ego-fuelled 'fuck you' to everyone, it's just a sort of… genuine peace and understanding. "   
  
Atton took a drink and brushed his mahogany hair away from his face before passing Meetra the flask again and lighting them both a cigarra each.   
  
He didn't look at her as he handed her the smoking stick of organic matter, but that smirk… that fucking expression he wore. It was one she had seen dozens? No, hundreds of times by now. Part of her wanted to sock him, part of her wanted to say things she still wasn't sure she was ready to say.   
  
"You say all of these things like I haven't noticed before, kitty-cat." He said past his smoke, resting a knee on his elbow.   
  
"Shut up Atton." She whispered, looking at the ground, tears in her eyes again and grass sticking to her palms. She looked over at him again briefly. "But you… you've come so far." She remarked in complete seriousness. "So far. I'm really proud of you."   
  
She got the sense he was caught a bit off guard by her words, and when all he said was "Thanks." She looked back at the sunset and hauled on her cigarra in the silence.   
  
"My goal tonight was to find a bit of music that suited exactly how I've been feeling about everything. I think I found it. Do you want to hear it?"   
  
"Sure." And the noncommittal shrug of a scoundrel.   
  
"It's no hair metal band." Meetra warned. "By which I mean it's really different for someone like… you."   
  
A dark eyebrow rose in the dying light and Meetra shivered a little.   
  
"Judgement from a Jedi now?"   
  
"Just don't make fun in my taste in music." She countered, no longer feeling the need to point out that she wasn't a Jedi, feeling her cheeks redden.   
  
She meant it; music to her was such a personalized and universal thing all at the same time. It was private, but it was for everyone: A song that meant nothing to one person meant everything to someone else. To Meetra, sharing the music that really meant something to you was akin to giving someone your heart: She had given her heart to Atton a long time ago.   
  
She set the song up, she pressed play, she sat back on her palms again and finished her smoke. Atton passed her the flask again and they watched the sun disappear behind the horizon slowly, accompanied by passionate lyrics about metaphorical birds of myth set to a dulcet and simple waltz.   
  
They were both silent. No one dared speak a word till the song finished; to do so would have been a sin. It would have broken the fabric of existence. There was nothing in that moment but that five minute long piece of music and the whiskey and the hill and the two Jedi that sat atop it.   
  
The music ended at last, just as she had dreaded it would, because now that it had ended, she was sure what had to happen next.   
  
She looked at Atton cross-ways in a way that was not entirely uncertain, but uncharacteristically shy for someone like her; afraid of the reaction, despite the un-cloying manner in which the question was offered.   
  
"Do you love me?" The words left her lips. The way she said them, she might have been asking someone's opinion on ketchup or dejarik – so casual, so blatant and straight to the point as she'd always been with her opinions and feelings and questions.   
  
There was weight and intent and an open honesty in that question that she was very careful not to give away to most people, but Atton was the right people, and the time was nigh: She needed to know what the future held, so with the calm and un-judgemental countenance of a Jedi, she asked what needed to be asked.   
  
As soon as her query was heard, Atton shot to his feet and walked away, pacing to the top of the hill, hands shoved deeply into his pockets to ward away the chill.   
  
Please don't leave… please don't just walk away. I'm sorry I just shoved that in your face but I need to know…   
  
His back was to her and she shivered again.   
  
"Atton." She said. It wasn't a question; his name was delivered with authority and commanded attention. "Come back?" She asked now, with a softened voice.   
  
He turned and looked at her, face pale but cheeks flushed from the cold.   
  
"I – I do." His voice was weak and brittle and he turned away from her as soon as he said them and he took a few more anguished steps up the hill and Meetra still thought he might flee the entire situation.   
  
When he stayed and stood ten yards away from her, standing alone at the top of the hill, she took another swig of whiskey.   
  
"I do as well." She said, bold-faced. She was agreeing that she liked ketchup also. She enjoyed dejarik as well. She also loved Atton Rand. "I love you too." She whispered placidly, swallowing yet another mouthful of whiskey. "Oh Force we suck. We're doing everything that we really shouldn't be and I mean honestly it all happened because I met you in my underwear."   
  
"Your fault." He said, still not turning around.   
  
"Well maybe if you hadn't been all cool and witty about it I would have hated you more and this never would have happened."   
  
"Please come back over here Atton. I'm cold and I need to kiss you."   
  
He occupied the grass next to her in less then a second. He looked at her; glared at her nearly.   
  
"No more questions after this?" He said. "No more weird tension and the haunting feeling that I'm just having another fling with some doped up teen? Because I'm in this and I'm in it good." He yanked her hands out of her pockets and warmed them in his own. "If you are, I mean. You know…"   
  
She couldn't do anything else but grab him by the lapels and plant one on him. He fell on top of her, the whiskey warming them as their lips pressed together and their arms and legs entwined under the setting sun.   
  
Meetra pressed her face into Atton's dark hair and laughed, she chuckled and curled up against his warm abdomen and pushed herself as close to him as she could.   
  
I love you.   
  
I love you.   
  
I love you and I will never, ever leave you, Atton Rand.


End file.
